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In the vast silence of exile,

where no homeland meets the eye,

these flowers bloom—not from soil,

but from longing, stitched with breath and prayer.

They gather on silk like whispered hopes,

each petal a memory, each thread a plea.

Around the turquoise stillness,

I wait. I remember. I clear the dust

from the corners of my heart

so a spark of light may pass through—

silent, unseen, and full of grace.