A whisper wandered through the glade;
a wistful sort of serenade!
It claimed the trees were far too tame,
since none would bend to praise its name!

It sighed that gentle minds float high,
while "sharper" ones stay grounded: Why?
Though if you ask the oaks nearby,
they'll say, "They trip themselves, that's why."

It spoke of strength, of bark and bite,
of how the meek avoid the fight.
But bark is thick and winds are thin.
One shelters life, one rattles tin.

It mourned the rise of these "gentle folk"
(the ones that don't confuse 'calm' with 'choke').
The ones who lift instead of spite.
A curious flaw, in its troubled sight.

But oh! How breezes love to brood,
when forests don't applaud their mood;
They call it "truth", and call it "real",
but tantrums have a common feel.

So let it drift and let it sigh,
let every leaf go rustling by.
The grove grows tall, the roots dig deep,
while winds complain... and lose their sweep.

And if the breeze insists it's bold-
well, even air gets tired of cold.
The warm winds rise, the cold fall flat.
It's just how nature sorts all that.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Mayan, in the year 991 AF.