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Sunday, July 10, 2005

The Poor Tree

The axe of death proved sharp,
The murdering hands didn't spare
This tree__ the last one of the forest.
It stood here for centuries,
With their names engraved on it
A silent historian of someone's memories,
A shady dwelling of the birds,
A good shelter in sun and rain.
A center of attraction for the birds it was,
Always enriched with their melodious songs.
But everything is calm and quiet now__
The storm is over; still no bird sings!
My soul bleeds,
And shreiks to stop this all,
And I wish
That my voice may echo
Through seven seas and continents.
But I guess,
It will be a cry in wilderness.

Composed December 2003.