A deer that forgot to flee,
and in forgetting, took root.
Its antlers bud leaves that tremble like thoughts in wind,
its neck descends into a pot of earth and stone,
where once were lungs, now flow roots and sap.
Its hooves no longer wander —
its heart beats only upward.
Each dawn, the old forest breathes through its wooden veins,
and each dusk, the wind bends close to listen.
“Stillness grows when longing takes the shape of bark.”
Those who rest in its shadow dream of standing forever,
their blood thickening into amber calm.
The Maharajagar 