Nature Never Abandons Its Own
When the first rain kisses the dust,
The earth remembers every seed.
Silent roots begin to stir,
And hungry fields awaken.
Nature is a mother without pride,
A giver that counts no tribe,
No language, no religion, no name.
She spreads her table before all.
The rivers do not drink their own water,
The trees do not eat their own fruits,
Yet both stand faithfully every season,
Serving life without complaint.
The farmer bends beneath the sun,
Trusting clouds he cannot command.
And still the soil answers him
With yam, maize, cassava, and rice.
In the forests, wild berries ripen.
In the valleys, vegetables bloom.
The oceans carry silver fish,
And the wind escorts pollen to flowers.
Even after fire,
Green shoots rise again.
Even after drought,
The stubborn rain returns.
Nature never abandons its own.
She hides tomorrow’s harvest
Inside today’s smallest seed,
Teaching hope through seasons.
The birds wake to songs and worms,
The goats find grass upon the hills,
Children laugh around cooking fires,
And pots dance with fresh harvests.
What greater miracle exists
Than a tiny grain becoming bread?
Than bare land turning gold
Under the mercy of rain?
So when the barns are full,
Let gratitude rise like smoke at dawn.
For the earth still keeps her promise:
To feed every hand willing to plant.
Nature never abandons its own—
She whispers it through rustling leaves,
Through ripened farms and flowing streams,
Through every season that returns alive.
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