The curious child wanders,
eyes wide and feet restless,
tracing the lines of a world alive with breath.
Questions bubble from her lips,
filling the air like whispers of a storm.
Yet in the distance, there is a quiet crowd,
drifting through the haze, shadows among shadows.
Their feet move, but their hearts?
Still. Silent. Unquestioning.
Not tethered to wonder,
but carried by a rhythm so faint it feels like sleep.
But who's to say they are lost?
Perhaps their questions were answered long ago,
or maybe they've grown weary of chasing light,
content with the soft, fading glow of dusk.
The curious live with the pulse of the present,
but even the quiet crowd remembers,
in their own way,
what it means to walk, to breathe,
even if they no longer ask why.
