Senge Millie, the Unwavering Light

Senge—rooted deep,

where rivers of kinship swell,

a hand not just held but steadied,

a presence, not just near but woven.

Senge, the hush before the storm,

whispering strength into weary bones,

feet pacing beside faltering steps,

lips sealing doubt beneath a smile.

Seasons bent, eleven circling moons,

a harvest delayed, yet never denied.

Senge, the tiller, the watchful keeper,

counting dawns, unbraiding despair.

Time stretched thin, yet you thickened hope,

knitted resolve where it unraveled,

threaded patience into my shaking hands—

Senge, the quiet blacksmith of will.

Your voice, a lantern in fogged corridors,

each syllable a map to the door,

each question, a gentle tether,

pulling me back to the land of becoming.

Senge, the unclaimed laurels belong to you,

stitched into my story’s spine,

pressed into the ink of my name,

standing tall in the echoes of my victory.

And so, I speak your name,

not as a memory, but as a monument,

not as gratitude, but as gospel—

Senge, the name by which endurance is known.

©Bunguswa™