An old man sat upon a weathered stone,
With wrinkled hands and seeds that he had sown.
A traveler paused and asked with curious eyes,
"Why plant these trees beneath these fading skies?
You'll never sit within their cooling shade,
Or see the fruit that these young branches made."
The old man smiled and wiped the dust away,
"I do not plant for my own sun to stay.
I ate from trees I did not plant or grow,
Because a stranger loved me long ago.
Life is a gift we pass from hand to hand,
A bridge of love across the shifting sand.
If we only plant for what our eyes can see,
We'll never know the soul of any tree.
The beauty isn't in the harvest's weight,
But in the faith that opens up the gate.
For kindness is a seed that never dies,
It grows in hearts beneath a thousand skies."
The traveler bowed and felt a sudden grace,
Seeing the world within the old man's face.