It has been there for ages, perhaps older than anybody alive. Radiating dignified peace, it stands enveloping everything under it in a cocoon of soothing shade. A patient listener whom I consider my companion. On lazy noon, I'd weave uncharted territories on paper to bury in parched trunk. With numerous thoughts I couldn't share with others, I had bubbles of exuberant stories to be narrated. It swayed lush green branches and dropped a few leaves in appreciation. A young thinker humming to serene tunes of cooing wind on starry nights would teleport me to a sphere of leaves sparkling with coloured dreams. Over the years, the pile of buried pages from my memories, fears, experiences, years simmered into the roots of that old tree. It stayed patient witnessing my journey, shedding agony with withered leaves in autumn, buried under layers of winter snow, reborn every spring. From crumbles of my old struggles, figments of my journey, drops of patience nurtured it to my essence. The tree now lives as my legend, hope rising from legacy of showers that drench spirit in soaring ecstasy. The leaves fly afar, spreading through blue rivulets, blooming orchards and sing of a lonely tree that grew in a barren land with courage, turning struggles into elixir for leaves, a newfound freedom for memories to live on.
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