Those two trees there, they stand crooked and lonely in the wide field. The wind has pushed them, pressed both powerfully in its direction. They are so strong, so ponderous, and their small leaves flutter excitedly in the breeze. Their ancient roots reach so incredibly deep. Their bark is so firm and gnarled.
There they stand, tilted, subject to the wind’s dominion. They always yielded to it, yet remained themselves. I love them, this delicate art of nature. The gentle rustling, it’s like timid music. Their scent is beguiling. They are so cold, the two trees. Yet my heart feels their closeness, always a comforting warmth. When I embrace them, their magical power flows through me. They give me support.
Those two trees there, they stand crooked and lonely in the wide field. Life and the pain of existence rush past them. Patiently they wait beneath the roof of the world, braving frost, storms, and rain. So I look at them every day, and my heart listens to their soft whispering. They whisper, sing, and compose poetry gently in a secret language, eternally and ever proud. When I am filled with pain and sorrow, they listen silently to my inner trembling. Those two trees there, they stand crooked and lonely in the wide field…