He Wrestles

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.