It’s 3 AM, the world lies still,
Stars blink above the window sill.
And in my arms, a soul so small—
My moon, my breath, my all in all.

You cry—a song without a name,
Of hunger, heat, or fleeting pain.
No lullaby can tame your storm,
But here—my arms, your only warm.

My eyes are flames that dim with fight,
My bones have bowed to endless night.
Yet one small look, your gentle sigh,
And every ache learns how to fly.

I once would chase the mirror’s gleam,
Now vanish in your milky dream.
Your face—my glass, my truth, my grace,
The world begins within your face.

Each tear you shed, I feel it fall,
A thunder in a body small.
Yet when you smile, the heavens glow—
A bloom where only thorns did grow.

Your cheek still holds the scent of dawn,
Of life anew, of fears withdrawn.
I kiss it like a sacred page,
And feel the hush of love engage.

They ask me, “What do mothers do?”
As if I sleep, or wander through—
But every day I break and build,
A soul in silence gently filled.

One day your feet will leave the floor,
Your voice will sing of something more.
You won’t recall these fragile nights—
But I will hold them, glowing lights.

The stains of milk, the sleepless skies,
The whispered hush of lullabies.
They live in me—each breath, each part,
A living shrine within my heart.

For motherhood is not just birth,
It’s carving love from pain and worth.
It’s fading slow, yet shining true—
To light the path ahead for you.