The Eternal Garden

I walked into the womb of earth, a child of doubt and fear,

Worn by the wounds of ruthless men, their words too sharp, too near.

My soul was shackled by the noise of pride, of war, of greed,

Till Nature whispered in my ear, “Come, I shall make you freed.”

She did not shout, nor beat a drum, nor boast of gold or crown,

She wore no jewels but the dew, and leaves her only gown.

Her eyes were sky, her breath was breeze, her tears the sacred rain,

And when she smiled, the barren land would blossom out of pain.

She took my hand and led me where the lotus dares to bloom,

Inside a swamp of filth and muck, she weaved a sweet perfume.

And thus began the miracle, the turning of my soul—

She changed my burning anger into ashes soft and whole.

The thrones of hatred, sharp and dry, were turned to roses red,

The fire that once consumed my peace, now warmed my heart instead.

The rocks I wore inside my chest, the boulders of despair,

Were softened by her rivers' song, and vanished in the air.

The grass, she said, is humble still, though trampled by the feet,

It rises with the morning sun, still fragrant, fresh, and sweet.

The trees do not compete to grow, nor shout, nor claim the light,

They reach together, hand in hand, to kiss the stars each night.

She taught me silence is a hymn, a deeper, purer speech,

More eloquent than sermons made on pulpits out of reach.

She said, “A bird that sings alone may not have any fame,

But still it sings—because it loves, not for a world to name.”

O beauty wrapped in mystery, O mother of the sky,

You teach me how to bloom in storms, how not to curse, but try.

You scold with rain, you laugh with wind, your lessons come in light,

You show that every ending tear is just a star at night.

You mock the mighty human kind, with irony so deep—

The man who builds his towers tall forgets he too must sleep.

He scorns the flower’s tenderness, calls softness but a flaw,

But cries for peace when war devours the empire of his law.

Nature, you are satire pure, you show man what he lacks—

He built machines, forgot the moon, laid rails but broke the tracks.

He caged the lion, carved the hills, tamed oceans with his boats,

Yet can’t calm storms inside his heart, nor keep his promise notes.

You giggle at his monuments, his pride, his polished stone,

For all his glass and steel, he’s still afraid of being alone.

And when the wind begins to howl, he trembles in his might,

While you, dear Nature, dance in storm, and turn its rage to light.

You paint the sky with liquid gold, then wipe it clean at dusk,

You scent the air with jasmine thoughts, with earth’s beloved musk.

You keep no score, you hold no grudge, forgive without request,

And still you give, though every day we rip you from your breast.

Your rivers never call for war, your forests never hate,

Your deserts wait with quiet hope, your seasons never late.

You do not ask for wealth or fame, you do not judge or boast,

You simply teach a better way, and serve without a cost.

You mocked us when we killed our kin for power, land, or name,

And showed how wolves protect their young, and doves avoid all shame.

You wept when children starved to death while silos burst with wheat,

And sent the breeze to kiss their graves with petals at their feet.

You taught me that to be a man is not to rule with fear,

But sit beneath a banyan tree and lend a listening ear.

You whispered, “Be the morning sun, and rise without a fight,

Your worth is not in what you crush, but in how much you light.”

You said, “A man who loves the soil, the stone, the silent moon,

Will find that every breath he takes becomes a sacred tune.”

You said, “The man who hugs a tree may never be alone,

For branches speak in rustling tongues and leaves become his own.”

Nature, you are not just green; you’re every color’s muse,

You’re crimson in the robin’s chest, and purple in the bruise.

You’re golden in the autumn leaf, and white upon the peak,

You’re silver in the crescent moon, and blue when oceans speak.

You are the strength in falling snow, the grace in fluttered wings,

The roar inside a waterfall, the stillness twilight brings.

You cradle mountains like a child, and polish stones with rain,

You teach that even in decay, there’s beauty in the pain.

You are the soul of poetry, the ink in every line,

The rhythm in the humming bees, the scent of jasmine vine.

You’re not a thing to own or buy, nor frame in glossy screen,

You are the truth beneath the lies, the breath that lies unseen.

You watch us build and break and curse, and yet you still forgive,

For every cut we carve on you, you teach us how to live.

When smog invades your lungs and light no longer paints the skies,

You do not strike with wrathful hand—you simply agonize.

You are the mirror of our sins, the mother of our grace,

You keep a record not of wrongs, but of each fleeting face.

And when we’re dead, returned to dust, and gone without a trace,

You make a tree of what we were, and bloom in our embrace.

O Beauty wrapped in meadow cloth, in thunder, snow, and flame,

You are the poem we forgot, the love without a name.

You showed me that a kind man grows from listening to the brook,

That heaven’s not beyond the clouds, but written in your book.

You changed my thorns to blossoms soft, my fire to candle light,

You carved a palace from my tears, and made my blindness sight.

You taught that in a single leaf lies all the world’s design,

That love is not a blazing sword, but just a field of pine.

So now I walk with quiet feet, I talk in softened tone,

I plant a seed with every word, and reap what I have sown.

For nature made me who I am—a better man at last—

She took my sorrows one by one and turned them to the past.

And now I breathe in morning winds as though they are my kin,

And greet each ant and flower's face as something deep within.

No prophet, king, or holy scroll, no empire forged in war,

Can teach what Nature taught to me—how small we are… how far.

So rise, O reader of this song, and find your secret place,

Beneath a tree, beside a stream, where silence shows its face.

For in the quiet arms of Earth, you’ll find your soul reborn—

The beauty of the world is not just seen—

…it must be truly worn.