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It is night and houses hold
a hallowed hour of simple sweetness,
subtle glow at the core,
comfort framed within each window.

Inside, mothers invent lullabies
to hush their babies with lilting notes
neatly swathed in small blankets,
tenderly sung from rocking chairs.

Comforting songs stream across darkness
showing the way to infant dreams.
Innocent faces smile as though
angels whispered their mothers’ voice.

There is a certain tranquility
within the refuge of these walls,
a torch passed grandmother to mother,
gifts of lyrics for each child

generations of selfless love
meted out in melody,
magic music meant to soothe
timeless singing across the years.

by Raynette Eitel

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