The Divine Child
The Luminous One Still Swaddled
Hope isn't soft. It's holy.
You won’t find me in palaces or temples, but where the earth forgets the sun. I do not preach—only listen, only glow. My voice speaks in seeds and stirrings, in what refuses to stay buried. I do not promise it will be easy. I promise it will rise.
What I'm Into: the first green push through frozen ground, whispers under the roots, the hush before dawn, quiet things that endure, what is still unspoken
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