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Tremor
Before thought–the heart: a struck bell's hum,
in the chest's dark chapel. No word. Only thrum
that echoes the void where meaningwill climb.
Is this the soul's raw conference? A draft.
of prayer–unwritten–lifting like a raft
on some deep tide. Not speech. Not yet. But chime
of nerve and grace. Mind fumbles, blind, to trace
this pulse–intent–before it wears time's face.
The vibration: God's fingerprint, half-dreamed,
still tuning the harp of the unsung.
Copyright ©
Hira Fatima
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