When Colors Begin to Speak
Not a voice,
but a burst of red like fire at winter’s edge,
and gold like the sun just waking —
two notes, two tempers, two lifetimes
meeting on a slender branch,
amid a world too loud, too quick to listen.
One takes flight with untold stories.
One stays still with silence that understands.
Between them, there is no right or wrong,
only heartbeats — misaligned, then in harmony.
They need not be the same.
They only need to know:
difference is not a threat — it is a way to learn.
No one carries truth inside their chest,
only a heart capable of hearing another beat.
For the world does not need more shouting.
It needs more sturdy branches,
where two colors can pause,
and share the same sky.
