The turtle was born without knowing blame,
It swims through waves, breathes a thousand years.
Quietly it lives in mud and breeze,
Carrying the sky on its heavy shell.
One day, barnacles clung to its sides,
Tiny as seeds, begging for a stay.
“Just a little,” they whispered so sweet—
The turtle agreed, with no refusal.
But the barnacles didn’t come to leave,
They rooted deep, like silent curses.
Each growing shell became a weight,
Each dream drained, left dry and still.
The turtle kept swimming, no thrash, no cry,
The sea was unaware, the sky unmoved.
Only at night, when the moon bent low,
It raised its eyes and asked the light:
"Why do the smallest, quietest things,
Leave behind the deepest pain?"
The elders say, when a turtle breathes long,
It’s not from weariness, nor from age—
It’s letting go of all the unseen sorrow,
For its heart has grown too full.
