The branches ache
They dry
A trifle wind
Stirs to trace , the life;
It’s taken , it’s clogged
Before it can grow
It stops , struggles
The tree is stunted
Everyday the kids come to play
They pour water
Pluck the flowers
It can never bear fruits
They hit the tree with sticks at times
They laugh , mocking at me
They are children--- prudent children
I’m a mute object...
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