Son, my son—
once radiant, strong,
until the day your body fell silent,
and no doctor could name the shadow
that claimed your voice.
We carried you home,
our world shrinking to five hearts
circling your bed—
your mother, your wife, your child, and I—
keeping vigil as time dissolved.
O my son—
twenty years have passed,
yet we bathe you in light,
turn you with tender hands,
feed you with patience,
speak to you as though the air itself listens.
Your boy, now grown,
walks the path of medicine,
his hands learning the art
that once was yours.
Son, O my son—
your beauty has withered,
skin drawn tight over bone,
yet we endure,
making your room our hearth,
our prayer, our gathering place.
We speak, we laugh, we weep beside you,
watching for the flicker of eyelids,
the twitch of fingers—
signs the doctors dismiss,
but we cradle as hope.
O my son—
we cling to stories of miracles,
men who woke after decades,
claiming they had heard it all.
So we speak louder,
believing you hear us,
believing you know.
Son, my son—
I have seen sorrow in your eyes,
tears that fall only for grief,
a glimmer of anger,
a spark of helplessness.
Yet I whisper courage into your silence:
do not lose heart,
for we are with you still.
We dream of the day
you rise from this long night,
to walk among us,
to share our lives again.
Until then,
four voices root for you,
four prayers lift you,
four souls hold you fast.
Son, my son—
what is life to us,
if not lived with you?
