Like a Mighty Tree, A Blade of Grass
What does one do with the hatred that shares this land? Do not become weary, my son—like a flower without water—like a river without a path.
Rather stand up like a mighty tree, whose trunk—strong and tall, towers the earth.
Whose leaves blow freely in the wind and soul births seeds that feed the soil.
Whose shade removes flames that smother the land, and whose roots connect—deeply, quietly, listening, giving—to distant calls. Though never seeing the leaves it sways, it shares the water it holds. Until one day, it can't—no more. Its humble remains then earth new life, reaching upwards, grasping the light of a rising day—despite.
Stand up, my son—like a blade of grass—trampled by a thousand footprints bounces back to carry the earth—scorched by fire returns, ever more determined, richer green— though burdened or burnt to ash by flames.