The son is born; he lives his life;
His son is born again.
The wheel turns softly in the dark,
Each face mirrors the last.
The mother weeps beneath her veil,
Her tears feed roots below.
Each birth recalls another grave,
Each cry repeats a name.
The house remembers every breath,
Its stones are steeped in prayer.
Portraits stare with knowing eyes,
Unblinking through the ages.
The candle gutters, yet never dies,
Phoenix born of dripping wax.
Flesh becomes ash; time folds inwards,
The dead live on as memories dim.
The son is born; he lives his life;
His son is born again.
Not blessing, nor curse—just truth unending:
Blood begets blood, and time still marches on.
Dark Edge of Poetry 