In the middle of a silent jungle morning, where the sunlight slipped softly through the leaves, a tiny newborn monkey lay curled at the base of an old tree. His body was so small, so fragile, it looked as if the slightest breeze might carry him away. His belly was swollen and heavy, round and tight, though his arms and legs were thin as twigs. He was the poorest and weakest soul in that wild forest—a newborn baby monkey fighting against sickness and starvation.
His eyes were barely open, small and dim, showing no sparkle of life, only deep pain. His lips were dry and cracked, and each breath he took was slow, almost broken. He could not cry loudly like other baby monkeys; instead, faint, weak sounds came from his throat—soft, trembling noises that carried his suffering to no one in particular. The forest around him was alive with calls of birds and insects, but he was alone, unseen and unheard.
The little one’s body told a sad story. His big, bloated stomach showed how long he had been without proper milk. His tiny ribs were visible through his thin skin, and his fur was dull and rough. The sickness made his stomach swell painfully, yet his body lacked strength and nourishment. He could no longer lift his head; he simply lay there, trembling with weakness.
A few flies hovered around him, landing on his fur and tiny face, but he didn’t have the energy to brush them away. His tail barely moved. He had not had a drop of his mother’s milk for so long that his mouth had forgotten its taste. He tried to suckle on a dry leaf once, desperate for something to fill the emptiness inside, but it only made him cough weakly.
In the treetops above, other monkeys jumped and played, unaware of the dying baby below. They screamed, groomed each other, and leapt from branch to branch, living their usual wild lives. None looked down. None came close. Life in the jungle can be cruel and cold—when a newborn is too weak, the group often leaves it behind, thinking it will not survive.
The air was warm, but the baby felt cold. His small hands twitched now and then, as if reaching for something that was no longer there—perhaps his mother’s arms, her warmth, her heartbeat. But his mother was gone. She had left him the day before, too weak and confused to care for him. She had tried to feed him, but when he couldn’t drink, she gave up and walked away slowly, her eyes sad but powerless.
Now, the poor baby monkey lay on a patch of dry leaves, heavy sick and fading. His big stomach pressed against the ground, making it hard for him to breathe. He tried to roll onto his side but couldn’t. Each movement cost him all his little strength. He opened his mouth, gasping softly, as if calling again for his mother, but only silence came out.
Hours passed. The light changed from morning to afternoon, and the shadows grew longer. Still, the tiny baby did not move much. His eyes blinked slowly, watching the leaves sway above him. Perhaps he still hoped she would return, bringing milk, warmth, or just one last touch of comfort. But the jungle remained distant, uncaring.
A wild breeze brushed against his fur, lifting a few dry leaves that covered part of his body. It was as if the forest itself was whispering to him, telling him to rest, to stop struggling. He breathed out a long, weak sigh, and for a few moments, he seemed calm. His belly still looked painfully swollen, but his small chest rose and fell in slow rhythm.
Near evening, the sounds of the forest began to change. Crickets started their song, and the sky turned orange. The poor newborn monkey barely noticed. He was too tired. His eyes, half-open, looked lost and distant. Every breath grew quieter, smaller, until even the faintest sound of life began to fade.
The world around him didn’t stop. The wind continued to rustle the trees, a bird landed nearby and then flew away again. But in that tiny, quiet corner of the jungle, one little life was ending. His big stomach, once swollen with pain, no longer moved. His small fingers, once trembling, became still. The poorest newborn baby monkey had fought as long as he could.
No one saw him leave the world—no mother, no friend, no sound of comfort. Only the leaves knew his story, only the earth felt his final touch. And though his life was short and filled with suffering, the forest seemed to mourn in its own silent way.
By the next morning, a gentle rain fell, washing the leaves clean. Tiny drops landed where the baby had once lain, as if nature itself offered a soft farewell. The poor newborn monkey, heavy sick and starved, was gone—but the sadness of his struggle stayed in the air, a reminder of how fragile life in the wild can be.
In the endless rhythm of the jungle, new life would come again—new cries, new hopes—but somewhere, deep among the trees, the memory of that poorest little one, with his big stomach and unspoken pain, would remain forever.
