Once I climbed a towering cotton silk tree. It was spring and the tree was ablaze with uncountable dark red flowers as if ichor flowing through their invisible veins; tropical midday sun was hot and scorching; nibbling robins and magpies; I was at the top and the branch bending; it did not broke;
from the top of the cotton silk tree, I spread my eyes into
the open vistas, breathtaking and at the same time roaring
and humbling; I see the azure sky cohabit the azure ocean;
… No man actually remembers how he is born;
is it from a shapeless lump of clay or from mindless
so I dig a hole into earth; I plant a tree; I water it every day; I make it live; I see it grow, get married to another tree and have a family of trees; and among trees I cohabit – I become a tree;
trees are stronger than what man thinks; it’s the essence of everything that are living and lovely; the sun lends its lanky rays; trees take it; trees get stronger; trees make food even for the one who cuts trees; trees are the giving sons of mother earth; trees need no hug – but trees are fragile like love and peace and childhood days of rote lullaby.