LET IT GO

The window sighs—
a drizzle taps its slow, cold song.
It doesn't ask for rainbows,
doesn't beg for thunder's drama,
it just falls.
A quiet, grey surrender,
a damp stain on the glass,
simple, wet, and done.

And the star, far off,
a pinprick burning in the endless black,
so effortlessly bright.
No complicated motives,
no need for validation,
just clarity,
a lonely, shimmering point
of ancient, honest light.

The little bird on the telephone wire,
a tiny, breathless shadow against the sky,
doesn't study its angles,
doesn't practice its small, sharp call.
It is. It sings. It flees.
All that effort,
all that living,
and it remains so simple,
so purely untroubled by its own existence.

To be nothing more than the rain,
the light, the quick, small wing.
To shed the heavy cloak of trying,
to love this hard, brief life—
not with a shout, but with a quiet,
uncomplicated humility.
To finally be just what we are,
and find that it is enough,
and find that it is only,
this simple, fragile thing.

WILLIAMSJI MAVELI