from modernity to sanskrit

The sapling waits. The dry season surrounds him with cracked soil, cheap top soil blown by the strong wind that slaps his young bark. His little budding leaves shift slightly, wincing from the pain. He has watches as a couple of other saplings sprout huge leaves in only a short time, seemingly unhindered by the drought, while his own branches just slightly elongate and thicken, partially budding. Under the surface the dry ground forces his roots deep beneath the soil, searching for water and nutrients. The small sapling longs for the sun to stop scorching his branches. He enjoys the shade provided late in the day by the large old oak a little ways off. The old oak noticed the sapling shaking, beaten by the extended dry season. “Roots. Roots” was all he said. The sapling waved what few buds he had as a thank you. He began to relax in the wind, allowing his roots to sustain him.