The Small King In The Rain

The Small King In The Rain

A fragile crown rests gently on his feathers,

A quiet claim the world has never heard,

He stands beneath the turning of the weathers,

A small and solitary, watchful bird.

The rain begins, a steady, silver falling,

Each drop a note upon a muted drum,

Yet still he stands, no sign of fear or calling,

As if he knows what storms are yet to come.

An umbrella tilts above him like a promise,

A simple shelter held with careful grace,

He does not run, nor question what has found him,

He meets the sky with stillness in his place.

No court surrounds him, no grand halls to claim him,

No crowd to bow or whisper out his name,

And yet the quiet dignity that frames him,

Would make a king of any soul the same.

The ground is wet, the world feels vast and shifting,

Each passing moment carries something new,

Yet there he stands, his small form gently lifting,

A truth that does not need a louder view.

For crowns are not the things the world delivers,

Nor are they forged in gold or loud display,

They live in those who stand when courage quivers,

And choose to hold their ground through storm and grey.

The rain will pass, as all things pass in time,

The sky will clear and leave the earth to gleam,

Yet something in that quiet, simple climb,

Will linger softly like a waking dream.

A small king, standing where the storm once gathered,

No throne in sight, no need for grand acclaim,

Just quiet strength, in stillness gently tethered,

And something in the world forever changed.

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