Every time I find myself in nature, wandering through rural landscapes or returning to my village, I can’t help but pause when I see an old tree. There’s always the same lingering thought: What if a tree could speak?
Imagine the stories it could tell. The countless moments it has silently witnessed, standing rooted through the flow of time. How many travellers, weary from long journeys under the harsh sun, have paused beneath its branches to rest?
How many secret meetings occurred beneath its shade? Lovers sharing whispers and dreams, their tenderness blooming quietly beneath rustling leaves. Hearts heavy with hope have waited there, only to face disappointment when someone never arrived. Arguments echoed under its canopy, and heartbreaks unfolded as couples parted, their words left behind like fallen leaves.
It might have stood firm during times of war, sheltering fleeing soldiers, its trunk bearing silent witness to fear and survival. A deer might have rested beneath it, breathing softly as the hot sun passed overhead.
Beyond weathering storms and seasons, it has silently observed the rise and fall of empires, the shifting of governments, and the reshaping of history around it.
Perhaps a crime took place beneath its branches. Or maybe a predator paused briefly, prey caught in its jaws. A lone wolf, fierce and quiet, might have rested there before moving on.
Countless birds have likely perched upon its limbs during long migrations, and beneath its roots, animals may have found shelter—a safe place to mate or rest.
Many souls have wept beneath that tree, their sorrows and joys quietly absorbed into the earth at its feet.
Yet a tree can only witness. It cannot speak, but it remembers in subtle ways. Every crack, every twist of bark, holds an unspoken story.
In spring, it blooms—reflecting the happiness it has witnessed. In autumn, it sheds its leaves—perhaps mourning the sorrows it has seen. And in winter, it stands quietly, enduring and recovering, until it blooms once more to welcome new stories beneath its branches.
Imagine the countless stories hidden within its rings—stories forever kept silent, longing for a voice.
Stories a tree could share, only if it could speak.
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