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When the truth hides behind stormy clouds, One pen, aimed at the sky, made a vow: To be heard against the raging downpour of rain— "Why not set off a spark, to let the sun reign?" Silenced stories, forgotten drafts— A journalist's hope: a spark can be made whole. Yet fire without any fuel won’t last; Even more, we cannot brave any storm alone. So gather your pens, your papers, and devices. Ignite your heart—and in others, set dreams aflame. For hope to be a torch, then a campfire, Because even flames grow stronger when shared. Until at last—we gleam as one sun. Clearer skies the goal, unity blazing at our core. Yet in the sky, some even dare point their guns. “Let the lies rain,” they say, bursting in uproar, As tempests target the light they once adored. And the storms came—they still do. Clouds heavy with mockery, winds flung with malice, All trying to extinguish the very thing That only meant to illuminate. It is the curse and calling of journalism: To walk where thunder waits, To write even when the ink runs red, To stand—even if alone, Because the world still needs Those who do not bend with the rain. The spark that started it all—look around you: How one pen became a voice of generations, How countless flames continue to trailblaze, Even in typhoons, even near death, because Rain or shine, the pen persists. Weary or bloodied, our voice resists. In hope or in vain, as the truth lives— We remain duty-bound as we exist. No fame, no glory, or anything in return. Just for justice, For freedom, For truth, And to be the sun in any storm— In the name of journalism. No storm is strong enough to truly dim us. For even in crevices of chaos reigning, Our light will always seep through— The sun will still shine after the rain.