The Bird and The Rock

Says the rock: 

Time is a tempest wind that gushes through the trees, flooding the river, destroying the villages. It doesn't stop for the people trying to escape, for the dogs that were tied to the poles, for me nor for you.

But the birds don't try to stop it, they fly with it. Harnessing the winds with their wings, gracing the skies with their flight. The rocks don't stop the winds either, they stand their ground, taking every slash, every whip and every swing of the objects the wind carries with it.

You are a bird, I am a rock.

The tempest winds of time have destroyed both our villages.

You fly high up in the sky, away from all the wreckage. You go wherever the winds take you. You see it all, the rivers, the mountains, the stars that shine in the night which are not visible from below the clouds. You took flight, like you always were supposed to.

But you are blind to the call of your dog tied to the pole. Of the earthen pot on the shelf in your home. The sweet cream of milk and the smell of sweets that look upon the path you flew. The call of your parents from within a frame wrought with flowers who wait on your way home.

And remember the rock which remains. Which has not moved since you first took flight. Who doesn't see mountains or valleys. Who knows only the dirt of the path it walks, the joy of its home, the blue of the sky and turning of the days which only promise more.

Says the bird:

Time is not a tempest, always hushing past and leaving destruction in its wake. It is a river - sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Sometimes benevolent, sometimes cruel. But still, it never stops.

We are creatures of different rivers, who collided once but flowed their separate ways. I do not resent you, neither do I regret taking flight. You were born to stay, and I was born to fly. Time will flow and our distance will grow. You will know home and I will know the world. If the tides of our time ever collide again, you will see me carefree and I will find you stoic, for we will be strangers then, sharing memories.

I am not sorry for doing what I was always meant to do. A bird cannot deny its nature any more than a rock can deny its vigor. But remember this if you must: A bird cannot fly forever. A bird cannot forget where it came from. It needs a home too, a place to which it can return. 

It will return one day, after its heart is full, to the call of its dog and the glow of the kerosene lamps in the distance. To the rock which has remained there, growing old and wise. Who will give it a place to rest its wing, and an ear to listen to all the stories it has to tell.