One afternoon, I sat quietly, watching a pair of birds building their nest in the cracks of an old wall.
With tiny beaks, they carried bits of grass and wove them together— no stones, no pebbles, only soft strands of green.

Days passed, and the nest filled with life. The little ones cried out for food, and the mother flew tirelessly, feeding, comforting, and keeping them safe.
I watched her love—silent, patient, unquestioning.

Then, one day, the young birds spread their wings. They fluttered, hesitated, and at last— they flew away into the wide sky.

I turned to the mother and asked, “Why did your children leave you? You gave them life, and yet they abandoned you so easily.”

The mother bird looked at me and replied, “This is where we differ from you humans. Your children grow up demanding their rights,
and if denied, they fight—even in your courts.

But my children? They ask for nothing. I gave them life, I gave them wings— and now they owe me nothing.

Why would they stay? I have no land, no wealth, no inheritance to give. Only the gift of flight.”

And saying this, she perched quietly by her empty nest, her eyes following the sky.