By Deeya Bhattacharya
Of a Tree, I write
Which grew careworn in
A dilapidated backyard of
some in-mates long abandoned home. It stood there, silent holding on to its root, it's memory
of sheer neglect.
Of a Tree, in an Alien soil
I write; denied sustenance;
it's birth right. It lived afraid to die
yet hoping, believing at times
to manage to survive.
Of a Tree, I write, whose aging bark over the years in rain and sunshine have given it a resplendent hide perfect for firewood and all sorts, unknown
unseemingly been gifted which it
barely knew.
Some passerby remarked-hey look,
This buddy is perfect for our purpose for the pyre. It's strong bark, a perfect firewood stuff.
Let's not waste time.
To this, the Tree beamed in pride,
it's long-lost glory soon to return
the purpose of survival so long denied, so handy now. It seemed moreover sweet to die.
Like a Martyr it stood all the pain
headstrong towards this passage to an afterlife where to evolve would be much easier, fed with love joy and waters of the Soul
A Love all embracing all peace
And free.