By Snober Mehraj
I am the pine, rooted deep; a cone-bearing soul, braving every storm.
He is the brook; flowing free, untouched, always moving on.
I stood still; holding, hoping, weathering winds in silence.
He shimmered; gentle, distant, never stopping to stay.
I was made to stay, to grow where I was planted.
He was born to leave, to belong to no one, not even the earth.
The pine waits beneath the heavens; longing for a sky it cannot touch
The brook slips through the world; never looking back, never enough.
Isn’t it strange?
Even our names knew; We were the nature’s paradox
The meaning of my name? A cone-bearing tree
And the Brook?
