In the park , by the bench,

There stands a tree,

Which has seen innumerable seasons pass

and innumerable humans pass,

Seen their laughter and tears dissolve into past.

With ‘its’ fresh new leaves lost to fresh fallen snow

And ‘its’ dead fallen leaves on the ground

Walked upon by dead fallen souls.

Lost ‘its’ fruits to cruel season and hungry mouths.

Stripped away of ‘its’ branches and its pride.

‘It’ stands there now, not noticed by an eye.

In the dew covered grass

‘It’ feels my steps.

In he morning fog

‘It’ hears my cries.

I feel ‘it’ looking down on me

And wondering

How my loss is more important than ‘its’.

Simply because

‘It’ suffered everything in silence.