Because It Ends

A rose opens.

For a few days
it holds its shape—
a careful architecture of scent and color.

Then the petals loosen.

No one calls this failure.
It is the design.

The world works this way.

A limit appears
and suddenly everything sharpens.

The stars need darkness.
Music needs the pause
after the last note.

Without an ending
nothing would stand out.

Even love depends on this.

Imagine it lasting forever—
no risk, no loss.

It would become background noise.

A river runs quickly toward the sea.

Because it knows the direction
it sings.

A bird at dusk
sings as if the night were already entering the trees.

Leaves turn bright
just before they fall.

It is not heroism.
It is simply what happens
when something reaches its edge.

The mind resists this.

It wants permanence,
a season that refuses to close.

But the rose understands better.

It spends everything.

And for a moment
the air is full of fragrance.

Then the petals fall.

Nothing remains
except the memory of intensity—

which is another way
of saying
the moment was real.