A river once whispered, soft as dawn,
Its waters clear, a mirror of the sky.
But a stone, heavy with secrets long held,
Was cast into its depths one quiet night.
The river grew still, as if it forgot its song,
And the stone lay in silence, waiting.

The trees by the banks, with their leaves like words,
Sighed in the breeze, but the river said nothing.
It was no longer the music of the world—
It was only the weight of things unsaid,
The quiet burden of a truth too heavy to speak.
The stone sank, and the river stood still,
A parable wrapped in the stillness of time.

A bird flew over the river, its wings spread wide,
And saw not the stone, nor the stillness beneath,
But the empty sky, vast and inviting.
It thought to itself, "Why should I ever touch the ground?
The air is all I need to know."

And the river, though silent, spoke in waves:
"To soar above is to forget the earth,
To forget the roots that feed your flight.
Without the weight, how would you know the lift?
Without the stillness, where would the movement begin?"

The bird, in its freedom, paused for a moment,
And in that pause, it understood:
Even the wind must know the earth
To understand its endless journey.

Years passed, and the stone was worn away—
Not by time, but by the touch of water,
The endless caress of things left unsaid.
It had no voice, but it had a shape,
And in that shape, the river found its rhythm again.

The lesson was quiet, like the river's flow,
A truth carried in the deep:
The weight of silence can shape us,
But it is the letting go that makes us whole.
The stone, no longer heavy, now danced with the current,
And the river, at last, could sing its song.