Forgotten pine of creation

The pine stands upright, illuminating even at first sight.
It has not been planted; it has always been rooted.

The wind harasses its leaves, yet it feels affection.
The storm strikes its branches, yet it remains unfallen.

The spruces do not turn toward it; the pine watches them all from above.
It knows which is which, but it is known by none.

Its hollow is as large as the forest, a keeper of timeless legends.
Its roots are as old as the forest, covering the soil like tentacles.

It is nature’s impostor, and that is its sincerity.
It is nature’s protector, and that is its duty.

It is the mother, yet has never raised a fighter.
It is the father, yet has never had a daughter.
Its children have forgotten it; it still feeds them.
Its descendants have renounced it; it is still within their spirit.

The pine stands upright; even its posture lifts it to the summit.
It wonders without surprise whether one day the chosen one will see.
The one it chooses is the whole forest, everyone.
The one it means to choose is no one.

It does not wait; it keeps the depths for the select.
It flees into its labyrinth without hiding; the spruces do not know this is a test.
Away from its lost children, it leaves only flat ground on the surface.
Always their shadow, it keeps living in their hollow.
The pine still remembers it came from the spruce.

― Atrona Grizel