A Tree
Not in any quagmire –
in a wonderful plain,
he raised as a tree
among depression.
In long thoughts,
with a sharp wit,
threw needles around
in the surroundings.
Stood there alone
far from his fellows.
From time to time
bent usually down
under the winds.
From a high crown
to the green grass
lay the landscape,
behind a swamp
there were the hills.
In misery there,
he looked farther,
the stature was higher.
Growth had nothing
to do with curiosity.
Rooted to that ground
needed new to be found,
besides his own side,
in faraway spots.
Tortures took root
in the stock.
Never seen,
never challenged:
all that was high,
all that was far.
He’d strive for a valley,
but grew in a broad
with no kith kin plain.
Copyright © Oleg Borisov | Year Posted 2021
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