In the shadows of a frozen home,
a little girl hides behind the wall,
her breath is barely a trembling thread,
as if discovery would end it all.
The floor still keeps the stains of weeping,
her broken doll lies on the ground,
the only witness to her sorrow,
the only friend she ever found.
The window shows a sky of brightness,
children running freely in the sun,
but she has learned to turn away,
to never wish for what won’t come.
Her tiny hands are weak and shaking,
they’ve never known a gentle touch,
she dreams of arms that would protect her,
she dreams of voices speaking love.
Each night she prays without a whisper,
begs the wind for strength to stay,
but the moon still finds her shattered,
with hope slowly fading away.
Her smile is only a faint memory,
a spark extinguished long ago,
like a lighthouse drowned in storming waters,
like a story that never began to grow.
And so she carries, quiet, her cross,
invisible to the world outside,
screaming in silence, asking for rescue,
knowing no one will ever arrive.
Time withers her sleeping childhood,
the cold consumes what little remains,
she no longer dreams of being saved,
she no longer believes in breaking chains.
For some destinies are born already broken,
and some flowers never bloom at all,
the little girl fades into the shadows,
and no one will know she once wished to live at all.