There will come dry spells
And you shall miss the smell of rain.
While growing still,
You know you will
Sprout branches that leave you in pain.

There will come cold winds
And your leaves will curl and turn blue.
The soil will be sweet,
But you'll never meet
The words from which you grew.

There will come many axes
And you shall inevitably crash to the ground
But you were watered well
And all your fruits fell
So your seeds may someday be found.