Candles are set as evening falls,
Small flames against the dark.
Their quiet labor ancient still—
To testify, to leave a mark.
Outside, the city holds its breath,
A southern sky, the harbor still.
Where sudden terror cut the day
Against the human will to live.
Streets remember fear too well;
So do our bones, so does our prayer.
We light the shamash not in ease,
But knowing loss is everywhere.
Once more, the story finds its voice:
A fragile light, a ruthless night,
And yet the oil that should not last
Insists on burning through our fright.
We do not claim the dark is gone.
We do not rush the work of grief.
We stand, we light, we say the names
Of hope, of mercy, of belief.
In Sydney’s night, in broken hours,
These candles answer hate with sight:
That even now, and even here,
We choose, again, to kindle light.
History of Sorts 
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