In the stillness of morning,
when the world is wrapped in quiet,
there comes a breath —
soft, tentative, like a whispered promise.
It moves through the ribs,
a cool touch against the warmth of life,
unfolding slow like petals
that bloom unseen in the hush before dawn.
This breath carries no burden—
no weight of expectation,
only the gentle stirring of possibility
and the subtle scent of fresh earth after rain.
It is the language of becoming,
the delicate art of beginning again,
where every exhale
is a release of shadows long held close,
and every inhale
fills the heart with the light of new days.
Here, beneath the pale sky,
the body remembers how to soften,
how to trust the quiet unfolding,
how to cradle the fragile thread of hope
that weaves itself into the skin of being.
No need to rush—
this breath is a patient song,
a slow dance of light and shadow,
inviting the soul to wake gently,
to rise in its own time,
to greet the day with open hands.
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