BY: Jacintha Morris | Category: Others | Submitted: 2017-05-23 07:30:09



It had grown by itself, now huge canopy.
Mighty trunk, broad branches, looked cozy.
In No-man's land it stood, no harm for any,
A solace from scourging sun, abode for many.
The fruits it bore, fleshy and juicy,
No demands, not getting bossy.
It fed one and all equally,
Not charging even, single penny.
Birds built its nest, men sat to rest,
Haven of all, by its own feat.
Yet! It was shunned, seen as mere slump,
Though born by seed, drained by rain
With pointed fingers, many raised their claim.
Some cried "it was our ancestral pride"
Others tried to make that as false charade
Often it bled sap, due to sharp stone pelts
Branches brutally broken, stated as prune.
Some loathed it, as it wasn't a hybrid,
"Waste of space, fit to be turned charcoal"
Even the useless trees that stood beside,
Rebuked and ridiculed, called 'Old Fool'
"Learn from us and stay cool,
The poison fruits we bear invite death,
So we are spared, to live, as we dare
Don't be fruitful, as none are merciful"
They made it feel remorse, sad and silent
But it decided to last, at any cost,
The heat and scorn worked as tan
Corrosive comments couldn't taint
Seasoned experience, held it straight
"Am going to be fruitful whatsoever may be
Rather tumble down, instead of becoming harmful"


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