Under the sun there are no small and great—only the living. In a drop of dew lies a cosmos; in a crow’s eye, the wisdom of the sky.
A wet ant fighting for life in a bead of water is not weak but brave. A bee gathering pollen is no servant, but a clear note in the symphony of grass and flowers. The fly we shoo from the table preserves the world, hastening matter’s return to life.
The butterfly does not know it is beautiful—it simply flies; this is enough to remind us that beauty is not made, it is. Fish in the quiet of water, whales in the ocean’s deep song, elephants bearing the weight of the earth’s memory, giraffes with the lightness of the sky upon their shoulders, birds cutting the air like a sharp line. Even the molecules we breathe teach one thing: none is more important.
The river does not argue with the stone—it flows around it. The sun does not demand gratitude—it simply shines. The atom knows nothing of the human mind—and yet it is built from atoms. If the world has meaning, it is here: to respect what lives and what dies—for in every ending there is a beginning.