They say the dragonfly was born where still water kissed the edge of a dream,
Neither sky nor river — but the delicate shimmer between both.
She arrives in the quietest moments,
When the world is heavy with silence,
And the heart has forgotten how to flutter with life.
The dragonfly does not land with weight,
But with the lightness of memory,
Carrying whispers of the past like the softest breeze.
The elders say she is a reminder,
Not a messenger,
For she does not speak of what has been,
But dances through it,
Her wings weaving through time like a song long remembered.
Painted by the colors of dusk and dawn,
Her wings flutter like forgiveness taking flight,
Carrying the weight of forgotten wishes —
Whispers once too soft to be heard,
Now carried gently on her back,
Across the currents of time.
The dragonfly never stays long,
She lingers just enough to stir the air,
To remind us that we too once flew light.
Her presence is brief,
But it is enough to stir the soul,
And in her silent dance, we find the lightness of being.
Her name is Táneshi —
The Breath That Doesn’t Break the Water.
