In darkness pressed by fences, steel and stone,
Where hope was starved and names were all unknown,
A man could lose himself in hunger’s night,
Yet still within, the will endured to fight.

The world reduced to hunger, cold, and fear,
Each day a struggle, every loss severe.
Yet some gave bread, a word, a glance, a hand—
A proof that spirit’s freedom still could stand.

For meaning isn’t found in fleeting gain,
Nor in the chase for power, praise, or fame.
It’s ignited in our labor, love, and pain—
In how we carry sorrow’s quiet flame.

Suffering ignored becomes a shadowed ache,
But how we meet it is the choice we make.
A person, stripped of all but breath and bone,
Can meet the end with honor as their own.

The body starved, the mind began to roam,
To memories of laughter, warmth, and home.
A single tree, a blossom on a bough,
Could whisper: “I am life—eternal now.”

In memory’s shelter, beauty’s fleeting stream,
A sunset, music, or a distant dream—
The soul can rise, though flesh is chained and torn,
And find in suffering the chance to be reborn.

When all seems lost and fate has dealt its blow,
We still can find the course our hearts will go.
For our last freedom none can ever steal—
To choose our stance, to think, to love, to feel.

So though the world may strip you to the core,
And hardship seals off every possible door,
Remember—choice endures when all else fails:
To kindle hope, even as the night prevails.