Zarwish—The Prose, The Poetry

I carried her out through the morning light,
Where dew still clung to blades of grass,
And robins stirred in gentle flight,
And time, for once, forgot to pass.

She giggled soft, a stream’s delight,
A ripple threading through the day,
More tender than the hush of night
When stars blink all their cares away.

She clutched my thumb with fingers small—
A trust too wide for words to pen.
It taught me how the great and tall
Must bow to love again, again.

Each laugh she gave, each half-formed word,
Was poetry the world can’t frame.
No lyric more alive I’ve heard
Than just the way she spoke my name.

Yet prose she is, too—clear and kind,
A daily tale my soul repeats,
A rhythm set inside my mind,
In every breath, in all heartbeats.

So if you ask what truth I keep,
What faith I guard from age or fall—
It’s her, who laughs upon my lap,
And makes the earth seem small.