Those Who Burn Like the Lights of the Sky

You do not see them, but they are there. White shadows, walking without rest on the thin line between life and death, where bodies break, but souls remain upright. They ask for nothing. No sleep, no food, no time. They carry their wounds in silence, like pillars of light that do not know how to fade. They burn their hearts on the altar of suffering, until nothing remains but the ashes of a life given to others. They are hands that close eyelids, that lift weary bodies, that bring hope where nothing seems to breathe anymore. They are eyes that stare into the darkness, seeing, beyond flesh and bone, the silent battle of a soul that refuses to leave. But who will save them? Who will heal their unseen wounds? Who will place a hand on their forehead when fever takes hold of them? Who will whisper: Rest now, you have done enough? There will be no one. For they burn until the end, without asking, without crying, leaving behind nothing but a forgotten memory and a light that no longer shines. And one day, when their bodies are mere shadows on the cold beds of their own hospital, no one will ask who they were, and the world will move on, without remembering those who kept it alive. But up above, where only souls still speak, an invisible fire will remain lit, a light that never dies, because those who burn out of love never truly perish.