Amidst the heart of the village, nature breathes slow sky seem listens with its folded arms; There stands a palm tree not so young, not so old, but it reminds me of eternal!
Not shout as the flamboyant flame, nor bend like the cassava stalk. It stands still and lean, a wise who has seen many colorful seasons and surprised rain.
We call it Ọ̀pẹ̀, do not know why! Planted by a mysterious man talked to spirits and walked alone. Nor denying this; only sways with wind comes with ancient stories!
So sing to it, nay for yield, but for utmost blessing. Moved by the song, would it for bleed? That wine not drunk yet; only was the fresh memory and the time to be fade.
It does not grow where not wanted, chooses the soil like a prophet chooses. Not in the city, find it by the stream; find it near the muddy road, where the rooster calls the sunrises!
When the wind comes long-legged, dust-footed foams, the scent of harmattan but the palm definitely not resist! It dances wildly, like the anonymous chieftain greeting the mighty gods!
The Elaeis guineensis! but the village knows better; they call it a proverb.
It did not forget the hand that planted even the blind man knows this tree by its chanting whisper!
The palm will fall. Not because of age but of nature's rage! And it does and the village will gather; not to mourn, but to remember! split its trunk and find stories; press its fruit and taste history. Plant its seed and begin again. And for the palm is not a tree a cycle.
With 💙 @chrysanthemum