The halls seem to be forever emptied. Our time was fleeting and, for some, the passing period fell permanent. Anticipation was no longer filled with hope, but infected by our poisoned reality. Is nothing promised?
But hear the bells—early morning mist glides past the sun on its dusty wheels. Open the blinds that shut out the world, yearning to flood the gates with a welcoming breath. Invite the dew, invite the new—whether or not the clouds decide to part, take pride in being promised that the sun never lies far behind.
Take a breath, look—
The sun has broken through the clouds.
Lancers, this is the time to begin anew.
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Photo Credit: Brooke Van Essen
