The shadow of those ailing trees
Bore down on me heavily;
The impression of the twisted branches -
Nay, the crackling, crooked, cancerous branches
- Had me filled with anchoring despair.
The leaves, gently dancing,
Yellowed as an over-turned corner
On the pages of an ancient book,
Were instantly scattered by a gentle breeze.
It would have seemed a waft of
Had not my soul sunk beneath the rolling waves
Of inevitable misfortune.
I imagine, had I been present
Since the overgrowth were only sprouts,
I would not have been able to cure
Of their inevitable death.
If I watered them a little more,
Cared for them a little more,
I would have prolonged this day
And such is my own demise,
An inconceivable clock, ticking
As each leaf falls, and be swept away.