A Withering Old Tree

Lofty, yet frail,
A Withering Old Tree,
Stands alone on an Island,
In the midst of a sea.

Lo! There it stood!
Nowhere to go.
It saw a storm approaching,
Adding to perennial sorrow.

The patter of a drizzle,
Turned into a pouring rain,
The weeping Hosts of Heaven,
Cried out in anguished pain!

Thunder follows Lightening,
Lightening preceded Fire.
Three of its branches,
To the flame it surrenders.

Why does it hurt?
Why does it pain?
Is there any way,
To numb its burning veins?

Should the Tree live?
Or should it just die?
Or is there anywhere,
It can run and hide?

Then came a silence,
It could hear its own breath,
But the icy touch of loneliness,
Was as cold as a corpse in death.

Not so Lofty anymore,
The Withered Old Tree,
Stood charred and beaten,
Desiccated by World’s cruelty.

On East’s horizon,
The Sun did rise.
Above the clouds,
It shone, shedding its disguise.

At the first ray of hope,
The Tree sighed in relief,
It shook off the scorched skin,
And underneath rose a young, green leaf…