Ghazi sat beneath the tree he had planted as a boy. Its leaves were green and new, dancing gently in the wind. He came here daily to write poetry, to escape the noise of the village. More than anything, Ghazi loved this tree. It was his legacy, his muse, the anchor of every poem he’d ever written.
His deepest desire was to be recognised as the best poet in the country. For years, he dreamed of one thing: winning the annual award. The plaque, the stage, the applause it was everything to him.
Then, one morning, it happened.
He received an email: “Congratulations! You have been nominated for Best Poet of the Year.”
He trembled with joy and rushed to the tree. As he wept with happiness, the shepherd who often watched him from a distance approached.
“Why do you always come here alone?” he asked.
Ghazi laughed, tears in his eyes. “Because this is where my soul lives.”
But hours later, the laughter faded. That same day, he overheard his doctor talking to his father.
“He has less than 24 hours,” the doctor said. “His heart won’t survive the night.”
The happiness turned bitter. The award meant nothing now. Ghazi sat under the tree, staring at the trunk he’d once carved poems into.
Then his father arrived, holding a small box, a vial.
“A donor sent money,” his father said. “There’s an antidote. It could save your life. But… we must sell the tree to afford the treatment. The wood is valuable.”
The world around Ghazi paused. The tree. His poems. His years of devotion. And now, the price of his survival.
He looked at the bark. “I planted you. You gave me words. You gave me meaning. And now, you must die for me to live?”
He clutched the vial in one hand, the tree trunk in the other.
“What is life,” he whispered, “without the very thing that gave it meaning?”
The shepherd knelt beside him. “You still have poems to write. Maybe not under this tree… but somewhere else. Maybe with people.”
Ghazi closed his eyes. He felt the pulse in his wrist, faint and fading.
He drank the antidote.
A year later, Ghazi stood on stage, award in hand. Behind him was a giant photograph not of him, but of the tree.
“I won’t lie,” he said. “I gave up my dearest companion to be here. But I realized something words don’t grow from soil. They grow from sacrifice.”
The audience applauded.
And somewhere in memory, that tree still stood tall in verses, in hearts, and in time.
Abu Bakar Ahmad
16/07/2025
A deeply reflective piece — it beautifully captures the silence and strangeness of existence.
Thank you
It shows that life is unpredictable and unknown, what you have today, enjoy it. Dreams come true when much of the beautiful things are lost by you. May Allah Almighty bless us all and keep us away from the burdens which we cannot carry on.
Indeed, good things come at a cost.
We must live in present time. And enjoy what we have present.
Yes, seize the day.