There is a language
spoken only by the dawn—
soft, unhurried whispers
that brush against the edges of thought.
They speak of fragile truths,
of wounds that time cannot erase,
but also of healing light
that seeps quietly through the cracks.
Between the pulse of night
and the promise of day,
there lies a moment—
still, suspended,
where the soul listens.
A breath held in between,
where sorrow and hope
dance in gentle balance.
The silence here is not empty,
but full of possibility—
like seeds sleeping beneath frozen soil,
waiting for the warmth to call them forth.
The heart learns to hear again,
to soften without breaking,
to bend with the rhythm of life’s tide.
And though the past still lingers,
its shadows long and deep,
there is something tender in surrender—
a letting go that is not loss,
but the quiet birth of peace.
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