Her voice was buried,
not forgotten.
but folded deep
within the quietest abysses of her soul.
A sound unspoken,
the ache of a thousand lullabies
never given breath.
It was not silence that kept her still,
but a melody too sacred
for their ears.
They carved a voice upon her,
a shape not hers,
etched with hands that never asked,
never heard.
Yet beneath it all,
she sang.
Softly.
Secretly.
Through dreams, through stars,
through the broken light between mirrors.
The voice she was born with,
was not made of flesh or form...
but of wave and wind,
of water that remembers.
It trembles still,
in the silence after sorrow,
in the space where the world ends
and her song begins again.
She is not voiceless.
She is the voice
before sound existed.