I lean into the silken hush of your arms,
where time folds itself like an ancient hymn,
rocking me between the breath of the moon
and the hush of the tides that whisper my name
Your love is a language of ancestors,
spun from golden threads of knowing,
woven with the hush of prayers
that rise like incense in the marrow of my soul
Oh, keeper of the sacred fire,
your hands have stirred the rivers of my spirit,
cradling my wounds in the lull of your laughter,
anointing my path with wisdom’s balm
Beneath the hush of your whispered stories,
I hear the footsteps of a thousand lives—
women wrapped in indigo dreams,
eyes bright with prophecy and fire
You, my moonlit temple, my endless sky,
teach me that love is both root and wing,
that abundance is the knowing
that I am never without, never alone
And so, I kneel at the altar of your presence,
drinking deep from the well of your grace,
letting your spirit echo through my bones—
a hymn of comfort, a birthright of light–
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