Unnamed

No cradle waits in shadow,
no heartbeat strains to rise.

Only the hush of an untouched path
that never learns the weight of footsteps.

The world keeps offering itself —
a bright coin, tarnished on both sides,
a burden disguised as a gift.

I watch them polish it like silver,
counterfeiting the truth.

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And the fools fall.

There is mercy in a life never summoned,
a gentleness in absence.

No hopes to shatter,
no bodies to endure the long unmaking of time.
No more graves to dig.

And still the earth turns without complaint,
bearing the ghosts of children never named,
resting more softly…
than any lullaby sung to the born.

Yara Dreamer.