Beneath winter’s silent veil, The trees stand tall, their whispers frail. No leaves to dance, no fruits to share, Yet in their stillness, work is there.
In frosty depths, they store the light, For summer’s blaze, their hidden might. What’s spent, we see with open eyes, But how it’s saved escapes our skies.
In every root and branch unseen, They weave the strength for seasons green. So, do not think they rest in cold, For winter’s grip, their secrets hold.
Find your cycle, seize your grip, Follow the trail, let your spirit dip. You will shed the weight of old, And find the path where dreams unfold.
In poverty’s grasp, the scholar stands tall, Death comes to all, both great and small. I dwell in the infinite, serene and free, Content with my lot, why worry should be?
