I. She once was light, and laughed like rain Upon the hills of Elenwain— Where sun fell soft on golden wheat, And joy rose simple, clean, and sweet. She bore no crown, yet all who knew Would say: She walks as morning dew— Unspoiled, with eyes the color spring Might give to skybirds on the wing.
II. A man she loved with soul and bone, He built with her a hearth, a home. Their child—a daughter, fierce and fair, With dandelions in her hair. They sang, they slept in woven light, They held the dark at bay each night. And in that hour, the gods were kind— Or blind to what they’d left behind.
III. But sickness rides with quiet breath, And love is not a shield from death. The winds grew cold, the stars went still, And silence settled on the hill. The child was first to fade away— A single cough, a single day. He followed soon, as twilight fell, Too tired to fight, too frail to dwell.
IV. She screamed, but only mountains heard. She prayed, but there came not a word. She broke her hands on altar stone And found no god would bring them home. The house grew pale with dust and years, A vessel for her saltless tears. She wandered, hollowed, thinned by grief— No myth, no song, no small relief.
V.
And yet—one dawn, with aching breath,
She stood where once she cursed their death.
A flower bloomed beside her feet,
Unbidden, small, and incomplete.
She did not smile, nor did she cry,
But raised her gaze into the sky.
Not seeking signs, nor seeking peace—
But letting all her seeking cease.
For grace is not a thing we claim,
Nor prayer, nor rite, nor holy name—
It lives where sorrow cannot speak,
And walks beside the bruised and weak.
It rises, pale, through shattered days—
A quiet, undeserving blaze.
And she, though torn and touched by flame,
Still whispered once her daughter's name.
