Strange are the trees
And their hollow, dark sticks
Awkward, those crimson birds
Sitting still, in their nests
Playful the soft wind
Flowing down the hill,
Yet so unknown this is
For those who have a soul
And are called living beings

How rare are those trees—
Today they may live,
And tomorrow, no more leaves
Odd indeed, the ones who live,
For they are only ghosts
To the one who seeks from us
The end

© Marty A.P. All rights reserved