[Intro]
Quiet figures line the page, margins pale and precise
A record of what was lively now reduced to price and size
[Verse 1]
I am the mother who learned to hold breath slow
Transformed in a studio where cold الطبسم? wait—no. focus. Keep in English.
[Verse 1]
I am the mother who learned to hold breath slow
To map a life in charts where soft colors cease to glow
I pin my memories to the borderlines you drew
And in the sterile light, I trace what I once knew
[Pre-Chorus]
Every datum hums like a distant lullaby
Unspoken numbers whisper the chorus I can’t cry
[Chorus]
I paint your silence with the mercy of a careful line
Where tenderness lives in sections drawn in iron time
The facts become a cradle for the heart that won’t erase
In the clinical glow, I find a slower grace
[Verse 2]
Your heartbeat turned into measurements, neat and clean
I measure grief in margins, in the places in between
I color the empty spaces with memories I can’t name
A gallery of sunlight fading into a frame
[Pre-Chorus]
Behind each statistic, I hear a once-warm breath
I stitch your laughter into the labels, stitch by stitch, I mend
[Chorus]
I paint your silence with the mercy of a careful line
Where tenderness lives in sections drawn in iron time
The facts become a cradle for the heart that won’t erase
In the clinical glow, I find a slower grace
[Bridge]
If the report is a canvas, then I am its quiet hand
Turning cold syntax into a harbor where I stand
To keep your memory orbiting through the measured air
To bless the blunt truth with the softness I still bear
[Chorus]
I paint your silence with the mercy of a careful line
Where tenderness lives in sections drawn in iron time
The facts become a cradle for the heart that won’t erase
In the clinical glow, I find a slower grace
[Outro]
And when the pages close, the colors wait for dawn
A mother, a painter, learning how to go on
