Part I: The Silent Witness

Beneath the canopy, where the light turns gold,

A tale of ages begins to unfold.

With roots like whiskers, silver and long,

The Banyan hums an ancient song.

 

To the weary traveler, dusty and worn,

Who seeks a refuge from the world’s deep thorn,

The tree leans down with a heavy grace,

Offering shade like a cool embrace.

 

Through the bloom of Spring and the Autumn’s rust,

It stands unshaken in the swirling dust.

While seasons cycle and empires fall,

The Banyan reaches, standing tall.

 

But man arrives, a savage beast,

To plunder the woods for a fleeting feast.

With reckless hands and a heart of stone,

He breaks the bough he should have known.

 

"I am the storm," the traveler cried,

With nothing but hunger and hollow pride.

"I take the timber, I strip the leaf;

My time is a flicker, my life is brief."

 

The Banyan sighed through its wooden chest,

"You strike at the heart that gives you rest.

You pillage the earth that guards your sleep,

Yet my secrets are yours to take and keep."

 

For even as man destroys the glade,

The tree remains in the sun and shade.

Though plundered and scarred by the human hand,

It gives its all to the broken land.