Island Sunrise
The whistle pierced the darkness,
a call to the campers.
Tents rustled to life
as eager figures emerged,
ready to witness the dawn.
The promise of sunrise
hung gently in the air,
drawing us from our sleeping bags
towards the waiting shore.
My head, however,
staged a protest.
The whispers of *mnazi*
from the night before
had turned to screams within my skull,
each step upon the sand
a reminder
that every celebration
demands its tribute.
Yet the morning
cared little for my condition.
It summoned us anyway.
We hurried to the beach,
anticipation overpowering
every excuse
that might have kept us behind.
The horizon stood in silence,
guarding its spectacle
for just a little while longer.
Then the sea began to glow.
The first rays of sunlight
slipped across the water,
painting the waves with gold
and breathing warmth
into the waking island.
"A good morning
signals a good day,"
or so the elders say.
Standing there,
with the ocean before us
and the sun rising behind hope itself,
those words
felt less like a saying
and more like a promise.
For this was not merely
the beginning of another day.
It was the first page
of our story on the island.
Not quite an expedition,
but a residential project,
where every sunrise
would teach a lesson,
every wave
would tell a story,
and every memory
would become
another tide
returning us
to this place.
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