I am the newborn,
the breath of my mother’s dream —
curled beside her,
cradled in her arms,
I am stillness, softly hiding.

I know I am joy,
a hush of peace in her day.
I know she will rise —
whenever I cry,
whatever I need,
her hands will bloom into care.

The thread we share
is older than stars,
richer than time.
It will stretch beyond
the moon’s pale hush,
past where life and death blur.

Then, we shall rise —
hand in hand,
to slip into the dark
and shimmer softly
as the morning star.

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