A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.

You sow seeds of your life,

By your own self.

You wish that they survive,

Without others' help.


You put some water of affection,

And desire for a vibrant leaves collection.

You anticipate it show the true inner reflection.


You wish the plant to grow soon,

It peaks out and sees the brutality.

You take care of it in the blazing afternoon,

So that it doesn't adapts to the causality.


You wish it to grow into a sturdy brawny tree,

Which gives fruits and blooms flowers,

Which can be set free,

And is full of vie and power.


Once it's usual to the surroundings,

People come and go.

And say bad words cursily

The tree- it's morals go low.


The imaginations and expectations

All are failed.

Full of scars and suctions

You now sailed.

Back to - from where you came.

No guilt, no regret, no shame.

You think to earn more fame,

Making your life truly lame.


The tree without you died,

Because it had no hope.

Are you still capable to say "it's mine"

It is long gone.

Found me out in the
Sycamore tree, swaying soft
On an evening breeze

But I fall victim always one,
To this delighted falling sun,
Still I get shaken by each leave,
Still possessed by cloud and sun.

These fallen leaves
echo strange tragedies,
as roots rot, on the spot
and time’s fury does not
seem kind enough to stop.

Tiny green things, browning
and disintegrating,
as humans move to change
despite the desire to stay the same,
shedding memories like a lamb’s coat,
losing layers and layers to
our own frailty.
Mortality is the knife at our throat.

Fear is the thief of time,
and time is the rogue
who pilfers everything
we think we know or own.

The tree will go on but we won’t
leaves will come and go,
like the season’s melting snow
and all the rings inside the tree
will marks the passing of everything
including me.

Just a young sapling
With an unhindered view,
It chose its position
And then grew where it grew.

Just a singular tree,
Not in a forest, copse or wood,
Preferring its own company,
It stood where it stood.

A tree in its infancy
Coping with life’s highs and lows,
It takes on all challenges
And it grows where it grows.

Standing resolutely alone,
An independent tree,
This somehow reminds,
Reminds me of me.