In the garden where lilies mourn their shade,
The woman weeps under the willow’s veil,
Her heart a tomb where once a cradle laid,
Her dreams like glass, now shattered and frail.
Beneath the twilight, the wind begins to wail,
Echoing her sorrow, her tragic tale,
A silent symphony, a wordless ballad,
Of a love born, too delicate to avail.
In her arms, the phantom of yesterdays,
In her eyes, a sun that’s lost its rays,
An empty cradle sways with the moonlight,
Her lullabies float on the night’s hushed ways.
She seeks her child in every dawn’s first light,
In the silent whispers of the starry night,
In the dewdrops clinging to a rose’s heart,
In the fleeting joy of a bird’s flight.
In autumn leaves, she finds her babe’s laughter,
In spring’s bloom, the dreams that came after,
But with every season’s passing stride,
Her hopes fade, her heart beats slower.
Still, she searches in the ocean’s tide,
In the mountain’s strength, in the river’s guide,
A mother’s love, undying, rides the despair,
Seeking solace where pain and loss reside.
Yet, in her heart, she holds a prayer,
That in the expanse of limbo’s sphere,
Her child plays in fields of eternal June,
Where love transcends, and there is no fear.
For in her heart, a truth so poignant,
That love transcends life’s every moment,
Her child lives in each breath she takes,
In every tear, every lament.
In despair’s clasp, the woman awakes,
Her heart may shatter, … Read the rest