Branches roasted with summer
That yielded fruits
Too lethal and crook
In caprice much and more,
Ages before that sipped the solitary room
And now with withered leaves-
Wags to lean towards the sky through bars too rusty to lean.  
As summer sun grills
Arms coaxing to the root
Beneath the sky
To break away  with the harp
That marks the decree of free lark,
Free, free from the closet that imprisons the leaves.
Deep within the bars
With screeching voice
Sings the freedom
To summon the rain of victory.
Free, free,  free
Aching voice of leaves, sound and cease,
Till inferno burns to ashes that flutters with wind and hark,
Free, free, free.
Some ages in past winter winds
Rustled over the twigs
Whiped the skin
Too damnation the closet felt
That fruits too lethal do rot
And as sweet peach appeared, the summer screeched.