In the dead of night,

Yaakov grips the unknown one--

dust and stars collide.

Torn sinew, raw soul,

he will not let go until

blessing breaks the dark.

"Your name is no more

Yaakov, but Yisrael--

you have wrestled G-d."

I too bear the bruise,

fighting in the quiet hour

with fists made of tears.

I shout at the sky,

rage curling in my clenched chest--

still, I cannot leave.

He does not let go--

even when I curse His name,

He stays, whispering.

Love burns in the clash--

not in stillness, but struggle.

I stay, changed by fire.