A morsel of life is sown,
The life of a dream, a wish, a desire,
The life wheezes, it lies amidst potholes,
Potholes dug by drudgery of the host’s journey,
The morsel is fed and watered,
It inhales the air of its path
But when suddenly the morsel’s creator disappears
When he himself condemns the morsel,
Betrayed the morsel dies,
But the roots, the weed can they die to?
The morsel is gone, but the roots are creepers
They creep upwards though their own steam,
The morsel is missed
The weed finds that no more it needs the morsel,
A life is wheezing again, but it ain’t dried up.
Someday soon the creeper will defy its nature
Shoot up from within,
Pulling the weed, shaping it into a tree.