The Momma Clan

She stitched dusk with thread,  

From torn dreams and lullabies—  

Time wore her silence.  

Ash fell on her palms,  

Soft as forgotten prayers,  

Woven into skin.  

The loom held her grief,  

Tight between the weft of years,  

Ghosts hummed lullabies.  

Windows blinked with stars,  

Each one a buried promise  

She dared not unearth.  

Her voice, a closed book,  

Pages curled by monsoon winds—  

Still, the ink endured.  

Roots drank from her hush,  

Growing through cracked memory,  

Blooming in the dark.  

She passed down the thread,  

Not to mend, but to remind—  

Silence can be strength.  

-Debanjali Nag