in the canopy where shadows whisper,
marmosets weave syllables of belonging,
each sound a small gift of recognition,
a reminder that we are not alone here.
they call each other by name, tiny
echoes in a world too immense to hold
every secret, every fleeting touch
of fur against fur, voice against air.
and in each name, a universe blooms—
something the human heart could
never fully grasp: the simple miracle
of being seen, of being known at all.
if only we could learn to listen closely,
to the delicate song of recognition,
maybe we’d find pieces of ourselves
in every small, persistent call for love.