History
I stood in the garden, looking at the tree,
I laughed at its shapes, so alien to me,
Belittled the branches, some blooming, some burned,
Though my ignorance, so blinding, soon turned.
I sit near the tree, admiring its might,
The subtle features, the dark and the light,
Its cycle, eternal, of wither and bloom,
Brings about hope, for my coming doom.
I’ll lay on the roots, under the tree,
In light or in shade, you’ll have to see,
Though I’ll be gone, my fruit may grow,
Legacy its name, as you may know.
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