It stands there, tranquil. Neither hurried nor anxious. Peaceful. Its gentleness seems eternal.
Beneath its branches, a quiet music rises: the birds that find shelter there, the leaves trembling in the breath of the wind.
It does not impose itself. It breathes, slowly.
The tree embraces the long view. Its endeavour knows no borders, and its purpose is universal: to live, to grow, to protect, to welcome.
It knows how to live with shadow and light, allowing them to converse without ever setting them against one another. It does not fear its fragility—it turns it into grace. Its leaves and thorns, fragile yet proud, tell the world that beauty has no need of certainty.
Even its imperfections become a work of art: where it bends, it adorns itself with elegant curves. Whether it leans to the left or to the right matters little. What matters is its resilience in the face of storms and its harmony with the world around it. The tree embodies respect—for itself, for others, for all living things.
Its roots reach deep into the earth, while it never ceases to weave connections. It does not fear solitude, for it knows that solitude can enrich the whole. And as the seasons pass, it greets each one with gratitude.
Time has left charming wrinkles upon its trunk. For the tree, old age is not a decline, but a fulfilment. A tenderness. If it could, it would do so much to preserve. But all it can do is hope, silently, that we might rediscover within ourselves something of its wisdom.
