A symphony of light prepares to flow once again through the streets. History calls it the Torch March, and once again, it will not be something abstract, but rather the materialization of many small private ceremonies, turned into a public event.
Each torch that will advance tonight will have been lit, first, in the imagination, and then hastily constructed in the restlessness of a courtyard, on a workshop table, on the floor... And that initial spark will be the nucleus of what will later manifest itself: will transformed into light, the personal fused with the common to create a geography of warmth and purpose.
Darkness always recedes before the tide of flames, and as the fabric advances, like fire seeking its forge, the night accepts the ritual. The march is a declaration of ideas, of principles.
The importance, then, is not in carrying a torch, but in being part of the tight-knit group walking beneath it, feeling its radiant, inviting warmth.
In the face of the old enemy that threatens the homeland, there is much fighting to be done, and it requires fire—the kind that illuminates and the kind that burns—and the ideas, principles, courage, and anti-imperialism of the fathers we honor.
The march is a space of pure presence, where beauty dwells, is realized, and remains in the memory of the city. In the end, the feeling of having been part of something transcendent will linger.
However, perhaps what will endure most is not the grandiose image of the illuminated crowd, but the succession of lighting one torch after another, from the friend who lights it to the one next to him, ensuring that nothing goes out.
The testimony of the night will be the certainty of a generation: fire, like hope, remains.
