Dòrainn

Goodness moves where the light is thin—
a fragile gleam that doesn’t win.
Its voice is small, its breath controlled,
forever warm, forever cold.

It moves unseen through corridors
where silence locks and seals the doors.
The brutal speak, the masses cheer;
the tender toil, then disappear.

A child reaches for a broken wing—
the world shrugs, unmoved by the thing.
The wound is deep. It stains, it stays.
No anthem comes. No justice pays.

Here, power feeds on open flame.
Here, softness walks without a name.
The ones who give are forced to bend—
again, again, without an end.

We shout into a deafened wind.
As truth is stripped, and meaning is thinned.
Still we speak, because we must—
not out of hope, but from the dust.

No hero rises from this night.
No chorus sings. No path turns right.
The soil won't bloom. The stars won't burn.
There is no promise of return.

Only the quiet—
and the knowing—
and the weight
of what keeps going.

THE STORY:

The title is a rarely used Scots Gaelic word that means: sorrow or grief that lingers; deeply mournful.

It seems to me that goodness is always the underdog. It is always being suppressed; having to fight to be seen, noticed, and acted upon. Evil is easy. It is the bully that sustains privilege on shoulders of goodness. It uses and abuses, and goodness is left in an ever-eroding loss cycle.

Somewhat depressing right now, I know, but so are so many headlines.