The tree

A poem about the simplicity and patience we gain when being our true selves, despite the worldly pressure we may come across.

By a freezing January flow,
Where maize and barley do grow,
There in the farmer's land,
Grew a tree with some mighty leaves.

Slow and low did it stand,
While others spread their hurried branches.

A decade by it didn't change,
Slow and low did it still stand.

Once the farmer lay on his last breath,
There did he call his little child.
He said "Child, all other heritage may fade,
But that little tree will always stand,
And so to eternal sleep he went.

The little farmer kept working on his field, And every day by sunrise, he would he sing.

Under the little tree did he rest,
Admiring the blue sky as his thoughts went.

Not a lustrum had passed,
Before the little tree began to grow,
As he sang, so did it dance,
Leaves of all colors did it spread,
And fruits as sweet as heaven did it make.

All fellow men were amazed,
For they always thought the tree as deformed.

And so, I took the little farmer's hand,
I said: "Tell me friend, how so did all of this happen?
What magic spell did you cast upon this tree to give it life ?"

The little farmer with a sparkling happy face replied:
"No magic spells or extraordinary cure have I got,
Only a simple heart and a charming song that I have to offer this world ."

And clearly as did he say,
Not much is needed to lift up a chained spirit, friends,

Only a simple heartfelt song to offer this world.


Landra.G.M