And he knew no fury as ferocious as this, slamming time and time again into his walls, pounding upon the gates with such a vehemence that the most violent men seem docile in comparison. He knew no force so primal, so dark that it threatened to overwhelm him even before entering his gates. He knew no enemy as maddening as the taunting voices. He knew no despair as heavy as the desperate screams of its prisoners brought to the front.
Yet, he stood, though nary a time did he not sway like a willow tree in a forceful gale, threatening to collapse any moment.
Yet, he stood. For the roots of hope were still alive. For the branches were not separated from him, that his leaves would wither and his flowers die.
It would have been so much easier if he fell over and took a rest. For how many would take note of a fallen tree? How many of those who watered and admired the willow would remain, grieving for the loss? For the willow grew amongst cypresses and oaks and pines, and there were many more, many more to use, many more to admire.
Yet, he stood.
But for how long, how long could he stand, the willow that sought water? The willow that sought the warmth? Without the tears of heaven nor the warmth of the sun's rays, for how long will the darkness surround him?
Let the light come forth from within, and trust in it.
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