THE SUN DOES NOT FORGET A VILLAGE
The sun does not forget a village
because it is small.
It rises with the same ancient promise,
spilling gold on corrugated roofs,
threading light through narrow paths
where barefoot children chase morning.
It does not ask
how wide your roads are,
nor measure your worth
by the height of your buildings.
It finds the farmer first—
bent over red earth,
palms cracked like dry season soil,
still planting hope in rows.
It warms the quiet huts,
touches the well’s still water,
rests gently on the faces
that the world has not yet learned to name.
Even where maps grow thin
and voices travel no farther than dusk,
the sun arrives—
faithful, unannounced, complete.
For light knows no hierarchy.
It remembers what men forget:
that greatness is not in noise,
nor in crowded streets of fame—
but in the simple act of shining
everywhere,
on everyone,
without excuse.
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