The Robin Who Loved Humans

The Robin Who Loved Humans

He did not fear the open hand,

nor tremble at the human breath,

he stood where voices gathered close,

unmoved by shadow, sound, or step.

A flicker bright against the grey,

his chest like quiet burning flame,

he watched us with a knowing gaze,

as if he somehow knew our names.

He came when morning still was soft,

when dew held tight to blades of green,

and sang into the fragile air,

a song both tender and unseen.

Not distant like the others were,

not hidden deep in branch or thorn,

he chose the place where we would walk,

as though beside us he belonged.

He listened more than he would fly,

he lingered long where sorrow stayed,

a feathered soul with silent gift,

that softened grief we could not say.

And when the day was heavy set,

and hearts were worn by unseen strain,

he perched and sang with quiet strength,

until the light returned again.

No wild retreat, no startled wing,

no frantic rush to flee our side,

he trusted something in our world,

that others never dared confide.

Seasons turned and time moved on,

yet still he came, so small, so brave,

a living thread of gentleness,

that stitched the hours we could not save.

And then one day the branch was still,

no ember chest, no steady song,

the silence felt too wide, too deep,

as though the world had shifted wrong.

But in that hush his echo stayed,

within the soil, the air, the sky,

a robin who chose human hearts,

and never truly said goodbye.

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