The Light of Change

A lone lantern, held by a keeper, flickers on Paris’ cobblestoned streets. It is an insignificant spark, but one that cannot be ignored. It wasn’t–and that made France what it is today.

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In Paris, on its streets gone cold,

Michel lit a lantern

Its flame flickered, its glow bold.

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Roads cried “Revolt!”

Tearing at seams;

Shaking under weight of bolts

Carriages with dreams.

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They peeked out from bolted doors

Some did scorn, while others looked–

As Michel walked, light danced with dark

Shone on rot, on stone.

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He called for change, and not for arms–

For awareness, not revenge;

The city heard, with hands, not ears

They repaired with truth, not fear.

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A new morn, and the streets shone

The roads of Paris, they still gleamed

Not with blood outpoured;

But lanterns, glowing, at each door

Bringing change and cure.

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Michel was but a dream that spoke

But Paris heard, still shone;

New lanterns blazed, their fire stoked-

Rife over rough-hewn stone.

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