A hush where dawn and dusk entwine,
your hands weave time in golden thread.
The stars dissolve in silver wine,
whispering vows the sun once said,
and lingers there, unshed.
The river bends, though never breaks,
it carves the stone, yet leaves no scar.
A song it hums but never takes,
the world may pull, but from afar,
it knows just what you are.
The storm that bows yet does not kneel,
a hush that hushes by its will.
A wound you touch, and it will heal,
though silence waits, it hears you still,
and bends, but not until.
The fire that flickers is not weak,
it knows the art of quiet glow.
It warms the lost, yet does not seek,
where shadows stretch and embers flow,
but never burns too low.
The seed that sleeps beneath the frost,
holds in its palm a forest high.
It never mourns what once was lost,
but listens when the roots reply,
and rises to the sky.
The sea unfolds, and yet it stays,
its hands have held the moon so tight.
It sings in tides, it moves in waves,
but in its depths, beyond the night,
its heart remains in sight.
A whisper spins within the air,
a breath that bends, a step unseen.
The world is vast, and yet so rare,
is one whose silence stands between,
and still, and always, queen.