Whispers of time, a silent truth stands tall

Amidst the whispers of time, a silent truth stands tall.

Look closer…..The green tree bows to the wind, but the dried ones teach it how to stand.

In this frame, the ancients gather—their bark weathered, branches bare, yet roots deep in stories untold. Beside them, a solitary green tree thrives, not in spite of the dried, but because of them. The soil they share is rich with decayed leaves, fallen to nourish what grows anew.

We live in an age that mistakes *old* for *obsolete*, dismissing the wisdom of seasons lived. Policies grind like axes, severing the ties between generations, leaving the young adrift in shallow soil. But what is a sapling without the shelter of elders? What becomes of a society that forgets its roots cannot breathe when stripped of the very guardians who hold the earth together?

Old age is a blessing—a testament to survival, resilience, and the quiet grace of enduring. Yet how many are denied this honor, cast aside as relics in a world chasing perpetual spring?

The dried trees are not dead; they are archives of storms survived, droughts outlasted, and life recycled into legacy.

To discard them is to erase the compass that guides the young.

Let this image haunt the halls of power. Let it remind us: a culture that devalues its elders starves its future.

The green thrives *only* when the dried are honored.