An orphan child
In basket nestled on a wooden chest.
The room is silent as the dust
That does not rise without its light.
The floor, no creaks,
The ceiling, no leaks,
No sign of Emotion and all her freaks.
And the night is long.
And the air is still.
There is no breeze or working chill.
The curtains hang silent at the sill.
Morning will come, but it's evening still.
A woman in white
With angelic might
Lifts her burden to a sleeveless night.
A quiet murmur in a quiet hope
And well-within her maternal scope.
There is a love that is not word,
And this love, never goes unheard.
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