A little girl stands where hush begins,
on the soft-bent back of a sleeping hill,
where stars still linger but the sun has stirred,
and time forgets which way it leans.

The moon hides, shy behind her shoulder,
bowing out in silver grace,
while dawn, in hush-tones, paints her path
with amber, blush, and breathless space.

At her side, the dog—familiar, still—
with eyes like echoes, dark and kind.
He knows her name in every world,
and guards the gate she left behind.

She does not run. She does not weep.
She carries pathos, wide and deep.
But through the silence, soft and true,
she hears: “You’ve come back home. The night is through.”