What of me?From a seed I did growBut what fruits have I to show?Hanging off me are but withered leavesAnd dying flowers hanging like empty sheaths.Where are my thorns that had protected me?Or my gardeners that had promised to tend me?My bark is fallingMy branches bentMy trunk is hollowMy canopy rent.What does it matter, what they had saidWhen at the end of the day, their words are dead?The pleasant words they spoke, the vows they madeNow exist nowhere but in my head.They helped some flowers, pulled out a few weedsBut did they really do 'good deeds'?The garden has perishedOnly death remainsNothing but decayIs found a
Sta.sh
