In the heart of a quiet jungle morning, a tiny baby monkey clung weakly to a low branch, his small hands trembling. His fur was thin and soft, his belly slightly sunken, and his eyes full of tears. He was only a few days old, still helpless, still learning to hold onto his mother’s warm body — but today, that warmth was gone. His mother sat nearby, grooming herself calmly, her face blank, her movements slow and uncaring. The baby’s cries echoed softly through the air, but she didn’t turn her head.
The little one was hungry — not the kind of hunger that could wait, but the deep, painful hunger that comes from days without milk. His small lips quivered as he reached toward his mother, opening and closing his mouth in desperation. He let out a sharp, trembling cry that broke the silence of the jungle. His voice was thin and high, filled with helpless sorrow. Still, the mother didn’t respond. She only adjusted her position, glancing at the trees above as if she couldn’t hear him at all.
The baby tried to crawl toward her, dragging his weak body across the rough bark. His little arms shook with exhaustion. He reached her feet and pressed his face against her stomach, searching instinctively for milk. But she pushed him away with a quick, cold motion. The baby let out another cry, louder this time, but his voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes as he stumbled back, confused and hurt. He didn’t understand why the one who had given him life refused to feed him now.
The sun rose higher, and the jungle around them grew louder. Birds sang, insects buzzed, and other monkeys leapt between the trees, carrying their own babies close to their chests. Those babies suckled happily, their tiny eyes closed, their mothers holding them gently. But this poor little one had no such comfort. He could only watch, his lips trembling, his tiny stomach growling painfully.
The mother monkey sat on the branch above him, her expression distant. Sometimes, she glanced at her baby, but not with tenderness — only with the faint irritation of a mother who had given up. Perhaps she was too tired. Perhaps she had too many worries of her own. Or maybe something inside her heart had already gone cold. Whatever the reason, her baby’s cries meant nothing to her now.
The baby’s hunger grew worse. He tried again, climbing slowly toward her. His little hands gripped her fur, his body shaking with effort. When he reached her chest, he pressed his mouth against her, searching again for milk. For a moment, it seemed like he found it — his lips moved eagerly, his eyes fluttered with hope — but there was nothing. The milk had stopped, or perhaps she no longer allowed him to drink. She pushed him off again, rougher this time. He fell onto the branch below with a small thud, letting out a weak, broken cry.
He lay there for a moment, breathing quickly, tiny tears rolling down his cheeks. The hunger made him dizzy. His mouth opened again and again, as if begging silently for mercy. The wind blew gently through the leaves, brushing his soft fur, but it brought no comfort. He was too weak to move now. His small fingers curled around a piece of bark as he looked up at his mother — still grooming herself, still distant, as if he didn’t exist.
Minutes passed. The cries became softer, weaker, fading into small whimpers. The baby tried to call one last time, his voice trembling: “Eeeh… eeeh…” It was a faint, almost voiceless plea. The mother turned slightly, her eyes glancing at him for a second, but she didn’t move closer. She looked away again, scratching her arm as if nothing had happened.
The little one’s body started to tremble. His lips moved silently, still searching the air for the memory of milk. His belly made small noises, empty and aching. He pressed his face against the branch, too tired to cry anymore. The world around him seemed so far away now — the laughter of other baby monkeys, the warmth of the sun, the rustle of the trees — all fading into a quiet blur.
Somewhere above, a mother monkey nursed her newborn tenderly, humming low sounds of comfort. The sight of that love was invisible to the hungry baby below. His tiny eyes closed halfway, and he tried to imagine warmth that wasn’t there. The pain in his stomach twisted again, forcing out a soft moan. But even that sound went unnoticed. His mother simply climbed a little higher, leaving him behind on the branch.
The baby stretched his hand toward her retreating figure. His fingers curled and uncurled helplessly, reaching for the mother who didn’t care. For a few moments, he watched her climb — her tail swinging gracefully, her fur glowing in the sunlight — until she disappeared into the canopy. Then, the forest fell silent again.
The poor newborn monkey sat alone, shaking, hungry, and heartbroken. He pressed his small hands against his chest, as if trying to stop the pain inside. His cries no longer echoed — they were too faint, too tired. He could barely keep his eyes open now. A soft breeze brushed past him, carrying the scent of leaves and flowers, but he felt no joy, no safety.
He closed his eyes slowly, resting his head against the bark. His tiny body curled up into a ball, trembling still, the hunger gnawing deep inside. His breathing slowed, and the last tear slid down his cheek. The jungle around him went on as always — birds singing, monkeys chattering, life moving forward. But one small baby monkey lay forgotten, his cries unanswered, his hunger unseen.
Above him, the light faded through the trees. The mother did not return. The poor baby, once full of hope and love, fell into quiet stillness. His story — one of hunger, loneliness, and neglect — became just another whisper in the endless rhythm of the wild.
