The tree to which we sat under was magnificent. It's roots ascended from the ground and then almost violently pressed their way back down in to the hard earth below. They had a job to do. They stretched their fingers deep into the recesses of the ground for life. They looked for the waters to soothe their parched branches.
Under it's canopy we sat with new friends that we had not known before today.
The first to offer a chair was one of the elders of the village. He wore no shirt and his trousers were torn, but his eyes held the riches of past memories. I was captured by his glance.
"What had he seen in his many years?" I asked myself.
These gentle eyes must have cried both tears of joy and tears of pain. These eyes have been blurred from the sands that blow from the north and cleansed from the rains from heaven. These wonderful yet old eyes have seen it all.
They had seen every emotion that his dear wife had experienced, for example, the birth of the son. The one who drove us to meet him that wonderful day. They have looked to the skies and prayed for the rains in the times of drought. Oh, what have these eyes seen?
How many tears have they cried? How many memories have they captured?
Though appearing cloudy from the outside they held many things on the inside.
In a village far from town there is a tree so magnificent and grand, who's roots reach deep into the earth. Sitting under the protection of this tree is an elder of a village, a man of wisdom, who's eyes have seen it all.
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