The Earth is Calling Us
Look at the rivers.
Does their story flow freely,
or is it restrained by waste from our hands?
Listen to the forests.
Do the leaves speak of freedom,
or do they fall silent under the weight of human selfishness?
Breathe the air.
Is it pure,
or does it carry the burden of forgotten choices?
Look at the ground beneath your feet.
Do you feel its pulse?
It feeds us, carries us, protects us,
yet we consume it as if it could never be exhausted.
Protect the river – it holds the future.
Protect the forest – it is a home.
Protect the air – it is life.
The Earth is calling us, softly and patiently,
but its voice grows weaker.
We must hear it now,
or one day, it will fall silent forever.
The Wind that Kills Love
The wind rises from distant lands, carrying cold and fury. It rushes through valleys, crashes against cliffs, sweeps across fields where young trees struggle to find their footing. The weaker ones bend, some break, some are uprooted entirely.
Love is like that tree. If its soil is not firm, if it is not nurtured with care, warmed by tenderness, strengthened by trust, the first storm can shatter it. People have forgotten that love must be tended. They have forgotten that a tear can be water, that a word can be light, that a touch can be shelter.
The winds are growing stronger. The world is cracking under their force. Love vanishes in the grip of fear, in the silence of cold stares, in the emptiness of unspoken thoughts. And yet, all it takes is a hand to steady the young tree until its roots grow deep.
It is not too late. The wind is just the wind—unless we give it the power to break us.
The Ladybug in My Home
In my home, by the bright-lit pane,
a ladybug hid one Friday late.
Winter whispers with its breath so cold,
but she dreams of dawns so warm and gold.
Beneath my roof, in a quiet room,
sleeps the crimson-dotted bloom.
She waits for spring to spread its wings,
to flutter freely through the fields.
She speaks to me with eyes so bright:
“Protect me a little, I’ll brave the night.
When the first bloom scents the air so sweet,
I’ll soar into the sun’s retreat.”
And I reply, “You’re safe right here,
my hands will guard you, soft and dear.
When March appears and the sun shines true,
I’ll set you free, fair dreamer, you.”
Maja Milojkovic
