I am that tree


discarded plant was I,

that a traveler,

a kind, gentle traveler,

picked gently up and

planted in a rich, fertile land

to make it a tree,

a big, blossoming tree.

But no, — not for him,

yet for all the passers-by.

I’m that tree, that tree,

that he wanted me to be,

with boughs so bent and so low,

with fruits full of ripe and so raw,

caring those that come under my bough


he cannot see me,


he’s no more.



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