As the flowers are reborn in the embrace of emerging spring

As the flowers are reborn in the embrace of emerging spring, Who am I to wither at dawn, when I see the morning blackbirds gathering, Blessing me with songs they sing in crystalline voices. Once, their melancholic song melts with each drop of rain, Under blue and clear skies, they banish winter’s pain with hopeful trills. I watch them gather fallen twigs, skillfully building new nests, Bravely rebuilding what was once shattered, facing nature’s trials. I know predators lurk in the shadows, so at sunset, in the silent dusk, I wonder where they find shelter, not to fall prey to the merciless night. With a philosopher's eyes, the mind wonders: what if birds were born without wings? How would they fly to freedom when trapped? Would we still hear the blackbird’s song? Wandering in the wilderness, some glide slowly, lost in melancholic motions, Sinking gently into surface streams, unable to control their chaotic emotions. We are blessed with spiritual wings, yet some prefer to remain in their fragile cocoon, Still unable to learn from the birds’ return, their true soul struggles to sing harmoniously. In the migration of misunderstood minds, we may lose ourselves among unfamiliar silhouettes, Like dead petals ignored by butterflies, our pains turn us into puppets. Darkness will always consume our horizons, but reaching the edge of light, I rejoice in the belief that my spirit will fly, even if my foundations collapse at the shore of hope.