The mountain never bowed to applause, Nor did the river pause for tears. The sky has carried a thousand storms Without remembering a single face. You are a traveler, not the road. A heartbeat, not the clock. The world was already speaking Long before it learned your name. Some goodbyes bloom from seasons, Not from mistakes. Some distances are drawn by time, Not by the hands that reach across them. Don't make yourself the author Of every unfinished sentence. Some pages are left blank Because silence belongs there. There is a strange mercy In not standing at the center Of every ending, Of every change. The sun does not rise to prove a point. The stars do not dim to send a message. Life simply unfolds, Wild, indifferent, beautiful. So carry your kindness, Leave your footprints lightly, And when the world turns without asking, Smile. It's not about you. That's how it is. © 2026 Gloria Penelope
The dry season came without mercy,
Cracking the earth, whitening the sky.
Rivers forgot their own names,
And even the clouds passed by.
No water left to drink in the jars,
No green on the tired land.
Plants bowed down into dust,
Grass vanished from the animals’ hands.
Cattle walked with hollow eyes,
Hooves tapping prayers in the sand.
People counted days by hunger,
Not by clocks or future plans.
That’s how life turns dry as well,
When money stops flowing through.
Dreams wither like thirsty leaves,
Hope fades to a brittle hue.
A dry financial season steals quietly—
It takes the voice, the rest, the pride.
You look full from the outside,
But inside, everything has died.
Just like land waits for the rain,
So a weary soul still stays.
Knowing drought is not forever,
Even in its longest days.
For every dry and cruel season
Ends when rain remembers the ground.
And life, once parched and broken,
Will drink again when the mercy is found.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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