In silent rooms where shadows softly grew,
A boy once lived with words he never knew.
His thoughts like birds behind a guarded sky,
Would flutter, ache, yet never dare to fly.
He watched the world in gestures, signs, and eyes,
In quiet truths that language often denies.
Each whisper passed him like a distant stream,
Unheard, yet stirring echoes in his dream.
But time, a patient sculptor of the soul,
Began to shape the fragments into whole.
A syllable, then two—uncertain, weak—
Until one day, the boy began to speak.
And oh, the sound—no louder than the breeze,
Yet strong enough to bend the tallest trees.
For in that voice, once hidden, now set free,
He spoke not just in words—but finally, he.
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