a language of rustling leaves.
The sun, a silent witness,
watches shadows dance and lengthen.
A lone bird sings, a melody
unburdened by human longing.
The earth breathes,
a gentle sigh of dust and decay.
And in the quiet space between,
a whisper of possibility,
a chance for something new to bloom.
This is the poem of existence,
written in the language of the heart.
It is a poem not tied to rhyme,
but to the rhythm of life itself.