"The Tree of Listening"
They say the elders did not speak often — but when they did, even the birds listened.
Under the ancient oak, a wise man sat in stillness.
He had walked many winters, carried many dreams.
Today, he came not to speak, but to listen.
And the eagle came too — not as a messenger, but as a mirror.
They say when a man and an eagle share silence, the Earth remembers something sacred.
The old man closed his eyes.
The wind whispered through the leaves like the breath of the ancestors.
And in that moment, the eagle did not fly away.
He stayed — not as a beast, but as a brother.
They say the elders did not speak often — but when they did, even the birds listened.
Under the ancient oak, a wise man sat in stillness.
He had walked many winters, carried many dreams.
Today, he came not to speak, but to listen.
And the eagle came too — not as a messenger, but as a mirror.
They say when a man and an eagle share silence, the Earth remembers something sacred.
The old man closed his eyes.
The wind whispered through the leaves like the breath of the ancestors.
And in that moment, the eagle did not fly away.
He stayed — not as a beast, but as a brother.
"The Tree of Listening"
They say the elders did not speak often — but when they did, even the birds listened.
Under the ancient oak, a wise man sat in stillness.
He had walked many winters, carried many dreams.
Today, he came not to speak, but to listen.
And the eagle came too — not as a messenger, but as a mirror.
They say when a man and an eagle share silence, the Earth remembers something sacred.
The old man closed his eyes.
The wind whispered through the leaves like the breath of the ancestors.
And in that moment, the eagle did not fly away.
He stayed — not as a beast, but as a brother.
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