Have you ever seen an acacia tree? You may have seen it on the way to the rurals. It may have been park foliage, or it could have been singularly standing on the pavement, a green distraction to the gray stasis of the city.
As for me, I have seen acacia trees even since when I was young, but I did not mind them. Dad always pointed out the beauty of these simple plants, but I, in my young age, did not listen. I look back now, and I admit that he is very correct. If one watches the acacia closely, one can see the reflection of humanity.
There are usually five main branches in an acacia tree; that is what I observe in the acacia trees here. They are usually separated some distance from each other: they are the fingers of a beggar asking for a pittance. To where does the acacia ask for resource? It is towards the sky. We are the sky for the poor; we are the ones with money to spare, but like the sky, we seldom give rain. We often wait for drought before we give them even little water. We want them to die, don't we? We want them to just disappear from the perfect world we have created in our thoughts, where they do not exist.
Yet the acacia does not die so easily. It persists even throughout drought, and is just there, waiting for a little rain to come its way. Rain may be our time, some of our money, or some of our patience. We have been given much: why don't we share our abounding reservoir of water?