Небо в алмазах

A quiet miracle under the blanket of sleep. All around is a warm light, as if someone had sprinkled powdered sugar from the stars across the sky. A voice softly whispers about eternity, but not the kind filled with philosophy and sadness, but the kind that smells of milk, childhood, and a new morning. Here, happiness is not loud, but quiet, almost like a lullaby. It breathes nearby, runs through your hair, sings about angels and dreams that fly obediently when your eyes are closed. The world briefly becomes simple: the sky is in diamonds, the heart is in the palms of your hands, and everything in the world is for the sake of one “my son.”