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—for the nights when the light dims but doesn’t disappear

Even angels fold their wings,

not in defeat,

but in need—

of stillness,

of silence,

of the sky to carry them for once.

They, too, drift through quiet hours

when prayer feels like an echo,

and the clouds press low

as if hiding the stars on purpose.

Even angels lean on unseen grace,

not to rise,

but simply

to rest.