There he was, so tiny,

yet carrying an entire universe
inside his little existence.

The pain was still there,
but somehow, I could hear it less.

He cried, yet my heart

translated the sound into music.

Joy is strange like that.

It does not always remove the pain.
Sometimes it simply gives the heart
something brighter to look at.

He moved his little hands
as though conducting an orchestra
only he could hear.

He knew nothing of bills,
disappointments,
or tomorrow’s uncertainties.

He only knew how to breathe.

And somehow,
that was enough.

Because sometimes,
existence itself feels like a miracle,
when simply being alive
becomes louder than every reason
you had to be sad.

Then he smiled,
or it was only a movement
my tired eyes wanted to call a smile.

It did not matter.

Some moments do not require evidence.
Some blessings arrive so quietly
the heart recognises them
before the mind can explain them.

He does not know
how he has rearranged my life.

He does not know
that beside his cradle,
a grown man is learning
that joy can have a face.

He only knows how to cry,
sleep, and breathe.

I came to meet my son,
but somehow,
he introduced me to myself.

Philip Muoghalu is a Nigerian poet and writer whose love for words began at an early age. From childhood, he found solace and inspiration in literature, developing a deep appreciation for storytelling, poetry and creative expression. Drawing inspiration from faith, personal experience, human emotions and everyday life. He uses poetry as a medium to connect, inspire and encourage others. Through his work, he seeks to remind readers of the beauty found in life`s journey and the strength that comes from faith and perseverance.