Notes About The Poem
image from stockcake.com
ANCESTRAL BREATHINGS
in the quiet seams of morning,
ancestral breathings rise~
faint stirrings threaded
through the rooms we enter~
soft remnants of voices
that once shaped our name;
they move like light
slipping across old photographs,
a gentle continuity
we never fully see
yet always carry,
as if the past exhales
each time we open the door
to ourselves.
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