My little bird

You say you’re not a writer —
but you write and write,
not books, maybe, but your own life.
Your words are aching to spill onto paper,
bursting out of your soul — into the world.
Not to be read,
but to be released.

Set free to fade away with the pages,
to live out their colors and scents,
to breathe in the essence of this world.
Even words long to live a life of their own.

And you — still doubting,
still searching for your place,
for your companion,
for that song to sing together at dawn.

You look at your fingers,
torn and raw,
your prints worn away —
hands that bite into themselves
trying to pull out the pain left by others.

Yet you sing.
You keep flying,
healing your wings with tears,
trusting the wind
as if it were your destiny.

Do you know what I love most about you?
At any moment, any second,
no matter where the sky carries you —
you can change your course.

Unlike the words in your journals,
you are free to choose.
You can fly.

And that is the greatest gift —
to know how to fly
and to sing your song
in any corner of the universe,
wherever the wind may take you.

You need nothing for that —
nothing but yourself.

Only your soul —
always whole,
always honest, clear, and bright.

And when it feels too hard,
listen to its melody —
it will lead you home.

Sing,
my little bird,
and spread your wings.
That’s what life is for —
to live,
to seek,
to keep searching.

It only means there’s a spark within you —
the kind that can give birth
to a dancing star.

But remember —
there is no star in this world
more precious
than you.