Song of the Day

Literally

April comes with blossoms bright,
Yet April keeps a hidden light.
The 24th, both wound and wing,
Reminds the world what days can bring.

A library began with books,
With maps, with minds, with searching looks;
From humble shelves, a nation learned
That wisdom lives where pages burned.

Armenia kneels beside the flame,
And speaks each lost and sacred name;
The world must hear what silence stole,
For memory guards the human soul.

In Dublin streets, the rebels cried,
A dream was born, though martyrs died;
A rising failed, yet history knew
That broken drums can thunder true.

Then Hubble climbed through heaven’s door,
To show us worlds unseen before;
The wounded lens, repaired in grace,
Became an eye for time and space.

China, too, looked to the sky,
And sent a song where satellites fly;
“The East Is Red” through orbit rang,
A nation’s dawn in metal sang.

But fashion’s towers also fall,
And Rana Plaza calls to all:
Who made the clothes? Who was there?
What hidden grief do garments wear?

So April speaks in many tongues:
Of peace through nations, old and young;
Of vaccines, villages, and stars,
Of healing wounds and mending scars.

It stands between the bloom and leaf,
Between the telescope and grief;
Between the archive and the cry,
Between the earth and endless sky.

O April 24, remain
A sacred mirror made of pain;
Yet through your sorrow, clear and bright,
You teach the dark to serve the light.

For civilization is not chance,
Nor memory some backward glance;
We rise by what we dare recall —
No day is small. No soul should fall.

And when the calendar turns its face,
This date still opens holy space:
Remember well, repair, explore —
Then build a world worth living for.