A river does not beg
to be remembered by the stones.
It sings as it runs,
spilling secrets into the arms of the sea,
never asking if the shore still waits.

The wind does not promise
to return to the same trees.
It carries the scent of distant rains,
leaving only whispers in the bending grass,
never pausing to hear its own name.

The moon does not wait
for the sun’s permission to shine.
It rises in silence,
casting silver over sleeping waters,
unbothered by the turning world.

Some things move,
not because they are chased,
but because they were never meant to stay.