She never learned to read or write, Her days were hard, her nights were long. She left no letters, wrote no lines, No written words, no written song. But she could write her name. oh, how beautifully she wrote her name. Her hands knew work, the weight of ordinary days, the quiet art of carrying what life had placed upon her. She knew the language of endurance. She knew the language of love. [Warm melodic passage] When I was little, I was afraid of the dark. Beyond the houses, at the end of the narrow alley, the night was waiting. But so were you. You stood beneath the night waiting for your little girl. And when I saw you, the darkness lost its power. We walked together through the narrow alley, your footsteps beside mine. I never asked whether you were afraid of anything. I only knew that I was safe with you. [Instrumental transition — warmth gradually recedes] [Low strings, distant ceremonial percussion] Years passed. Then came the day when everyone walked slowly, and no one knew what to say. I followed the funeral procession. Ahead of me, a fire was burning. Paper offerings rose into the air, their fragile ashes scattered by the wind. I watched the flames. I watched the road. I wept in silence. Mother— You had waited for me when I was afraid of the night. You had walked beside me through the deepest darkness. But now— Now you were leaving. And I could not follow. [Silence] Who would walk beside you? Who would hold your hand? I could not bear the thought of you going all alone. All alone. [Wordless female lament, restrained and distant] [The percussion fades; suspended piano and airy drone] There is a stone in the land where I was born. Your name is written there. Are you there, Mother? Or are you not there? [Pause] Sometimes I hear your sighs in the river of memory. Sometimes your sorrow rises like a shadow beneath the water. Sometimes I see the fire again, the drifting paper, the road I could not follow. I remember the warmth you gave to me. But what do I know of the life you lived within yourself? What did you long for when no one was listening? What dreams did you surrender before they had a name? What loneliness did you carry silently? [Close spoken female voice] You could not write your story. And now, I cannot ask you to tell it. How much can we ever know of someone who is gone? How much of another life can we truly understand? And by what right do we speak for those who can no longer speak? [Long instrumental space] I know the woman who waited at the end of the alley. I know the hands that worked and held me. But beyond the mother I remember, there was a woman whose whole life I will never know. [Music becomes almost still] [Soft female voice, in French — quoted lines by Nyx] La Nuit cherche, La Nuit apprend, La Nuit se souvient des absents.
