I bet the baby slept through the promise of death,
snored through rocking cradles,
never stirred as the wind howled outside.
I bet the baby only listened to his mother,
followed her voice on the first day he met the world.
Why do words matter when the speaker exists?
Aren’t we meant to find comfort in the unsaid,
in the source of the promise, not just the vow?
So I hum our lullaby at night,
where your raspy voice once reached me through the phone—
"I've found my kind."
I still sleep to the promise you sang—
"My heart’s own twin."
I keep the fire warm in the refuge you ordained—
"A home in her love."
And drift into slumber, hoping to reach your vision—
"Where dreams begin."
Though it's not your voice anymore,
the song remains:
"I've found my kind, my heart's own twin,
A home in her love, where dreams begin."
©umclite
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