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If ever you were taken from me,
The sun would rise in mourning black,
And birds would fold their wings in shame
For mother  not to bring you back.
The sky would wear your apron soft,
The wind would weep your name,
And I — a child with broken psalms —
Would never speak the same.

If ever you were taken from me,
No bread would taste, no dream would stay,
I’d ask the earth to give you breath,
And take my own away.
I'd gather all your lullabies
And sing them to the moon,
So she might rock you back to sleep
And keep you coming soon.

If ever you were taken from me,
I’d find you in the scent of rain,
In folded towels, in threads of light,
In silence wrapped in pain.
I’d keep your slippers by the door,
Your comb upon the sill,
And speak to chairs like they were you,
And hope you'd hear me still.

If ever you were taken from me,
The prayers would lose their flame,
And I’d invent a newer faith
That only knows your name.
A gospel made of Sunday hair,
Of soup, and song, and soap
And I would write it every night,
In ink made out of hope.

If ever you were taken from me,
I’d carry on, but less, but slow
A ghost in search of your perfume,
A heart that doesn’t know
How not to beat in sync with yours,
How not to wait at noon
Like I still do, beneath the clock,
For you to come back soon.
If ever you were taken from me,
The garden would forget to bloom,
The kettle would refuse to sing,
The house would fill with gloom.
And yet—I’d still set out your plate,
Still pour your cup of tea,
Still hum the songs you used to hum
When rocking only me.

If ever you were taken from me,
I'd wear your voice against my chest,
Like talisman or ancient thread
That keeps the bones at rest.
I’d walk through shops you used to love,
Touch soaps you used to buy—
Then leave with empty hands again,
And wetness in my eye.

If ever you were taken from me,
No priest could quite translate
The language of a child who weeps
Outside his mother’s gate.
I'd look for you in every cloud,
In coins dropped in the street,
In women pushing carts of bread
With aching, swollen feet.

If ever you were taken from me,
I’d sew my grief into a shawl,
And wear it through each solemn day
Until we meet through fall
And spring, and dusk, and birth again,
When time is done with fear,
And all that’s left is mother's touch,
Returning soft and near.


So if you must be far from me,
Beyond the breath, beyond the years,
Then carry all my unsaid words
Through heaven’s veil of tears.
And when I’ll walk that final dusk,
Alone, through shadowed skies—
Let your warm hand, unseen, reach down
And close my weeping eyes.
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