The clouds,
soft as whispers, forever drifting,
like memories slipping through time’s gentle fingers.
The sky,
so vast,
but never wears the same shade twice.
The mountains,
towering and mighty,
always evoke a sense of home.
The river,
fierce and free,
never lingers in one place.
The sunset,
a masterpiece of dying light,
reminds us that even the most beautiful things must end.
The night,
dark as an unspoken secret,
shimmers with scattered stars.
The moon,
ever-changing yet constant,
watches over with a quiet loneliness.
The sun,
radiant in its golden embrace,
warms the coldest days,
yet is too brilliant to hold in your gaze.
The birds, oh, the birds—
always soaring from place to place,
yet they always find their way home.
Nature is melancholic…
yet breathtakingly beautiful.
Or maybe nature simply is—
neither sorrowful nor joyous.
Needing no reason,
seeking no meaning,
existing as it was always meant to be.
It does not mourn the passing clouds,
nor rejoice in the rising sun.
It does not long,
it does not grieve,
it does not ask to be understood.
Unmoved by perception,
untouched by desire,
it remains—
vast,
unshaken,
eternal.
Unapologetic.
Unyielding.
Thriving.
And that is why,
even in its melancholy,
it reminds me—
to exist without apology.
To embrace my longing.
my solitude,
my too-muchness—
yet still be whole,
still be beautiful,
still be alive.
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