In the dark, a tiny voice sings,
under the beds where monsters hum,
"I'm here," it says, "but who hears me?"
Peeking through the cracks of day,
the sun forgets, but shadows remember.
When whispers drift, like feathers lost,
the echoes find their homes in hearts,
pounding softly a rhythm of silent screams.
Children count their fears like stars,
dreaming dreams that dreams forget.