Zywa
In soil that I have not chosen
In soil that I have not chosen
in no one's shadow
all myself
I watch and hear the neighbours
I can't get any closer
My branches reach
ever stronger, ever further
Children climb in them
They laugh and kiss
themselves a future
In soil that I have not chosen
in no one's shadow
I become rough and wrinkled
In heat, snow and storm
branches break and die
They reach ever
thinner and shorter
Nests blow away
to new trees
For new loves
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