The Architect of Morning
What if dawn delays my pane,
fearing dreams too long displaced?
I send my shadow down the lane—
it walks the streets I’ve never faced.
My homeland breathes in mother’s tea,
its edges traced by grief and flame.
Each night the map reshapes for me,
erasing paths I cannot name.
We built a house from borrowed years,
its rooms grown cold with seasons’ frost.
Yet jasmine climbs beyond the tears—
a prayer no winter’s chill has lost.
Between the pulse of hope and ache,
I hold the sighs my father gave.
Light hurries on, the dark to break,
yet lingers slow beside his grave.
The morning stirs with cautious rise,
its ripple soft across the skies.
“Endings bear the seeds of flight—
within the hush, the promise waits.”
Breath by breath, I raise anew
a country built from whispered trust,
woven deep in grandma’s thread—
strong stitches spun from soil and dust.
The morning leans across the line,
near, though never fully crossed.
I learn to shape its grand design—
an architect who heals the loss.
At last, the dawn bends through the pane,
a hush as gentle as the breeze.
Not with words too plain, it calls—
but opens gates where hope can ease.
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