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.



7 thoughts on “About

    • Anna, I believe everyone is a potential poet. You are throwing stones at your own roof with this comment. The problem is that we compare ourselves with geniuses like T.S.Eliot, Sylvia Plath, Dante Alighieri, etc. If I do so I’d better stop writing right now. And if I compare myself to you, Newrana, I’d better stop too because I always prefer the works of others. However, I once felt the need to write no matter what came out or what people said… no literary ambitions at all… writing as a strong inner need, as a liberation, therapy, joy… And I came up with, among other things, this very simple poetry attempt called “Confidence”, just what you and I lack: https://momentsbloc.wordpress.com/2016/06/14/confidence/

      Liked by 3 people

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