Lyric

There was an author who began with colorless squares —

Two little shapes that learned to hug, and turned to green

She painted what a child represents: the small, the true

Her readers grew, and grew up, and read her to their own

A studio filled with sketches, a theater that she drew —

Imagination was the only seed she'd sown

She has passed away. The visitors still come

The door is open, although she is not there

Her chair is empty — but the room is not, for some:

Her spirit sits with everyone who climbs the stair

Unfold your wings — the ones she drew inside you

They do not fold anymore. They were never just her own

Words are power. Words are light

What one hand painted, a thousand hands have flown

Not only pictures but also silence — she taught us both

The page that says the least can hold the most

Until the last, she kept a pencil close

Inspired by the child she was — her dearest ghost

We stood in the studio. Mina touched the light

Kai read the wall: "To the one who visits next —"

Bird finished it, quietly, getting it right:

"— the story is yours now. Write the text."

Unfold your wings — the ones she drew inside us

They do not fold anymore. They were never hers alone

Words are power. Words are light

What one hand painted, a thousand hands have flown

Two colorless squares. One hug. One green

The smallest page that anyone has ever seen —

And it is still unfolding