She drinks the dawn from broken seas,
threads the hush through centuries.
The wind keeps her in quiet vows,
her pulse remembers ancient hows.
Not rich, not poor — she is the stream,
where need dissolves, where meanings dream.
She is rain that never asks to fall,
the echo breathing through it all.
Soft as mercy, wild as tide,
her name is the space the stars confide.
She speaks in gestures made of dusk,
turns absence into fragrant musk.
Each silence blooms beneath her tongue,
where prayers were born before they’re sung.
And when the world forgets its sound,
she hums — and roots wake underground.
Her giving carves a path unseen,
the pulse between the might-have-been.
No altar, no decree,
just her — the fluent mystery.
Shefa — not spoken, not defined,
but felt where breath and grace entwine.
She speaks in gestures made of dusk,
turns absence into fragrant musk.
Each silence blooms beneath her tongue,
where prayers were born before they’re sung.
She speaks in gestures made of dusk,
turns absence into fragrant musk.
Each silence blooms beneath her tongue,
her name is the space the stars confide.
No altar, no decree,
just her — the fluent mystery.
She speaks in gestures made of dusk,
turns absence into fragrant musk.
Each silence blooms beneath her tongue,
her name is the space the stars confide.
