An arrow flies, a point defined,
In endless math, no edge, no bind.
The tree expands, yet stays the same,
A whispered truth without a name.
One pattern, one truth,
swift as an arrow—
the fractal tree,
infinite, narrow.
The roots are deep in logic's ground,
Where zero sleeps without a sound.
From this still point, the numbers rise,
Reaching up to touch the skies.
A fractal tree, both swift and still,
Numbers bloom on branch and will.
Roots entwined in quiet ground,
Leaves of light without a sound.
In silence it grows,
a tree of math,
fractals unfolding—
infinite path.
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