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Hassan Abdul

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Member Since: Sep, 2006

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A tale of two trees
by Hassan Abdul
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
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Once in a land stood a tree,


The object of this brief, sad tale.


 


Stout and sturdy it was.


Its majesty was  sight to see


…and then its life was touched for the worse.


 


Now its roots are dried as it lies on a side,


Its crooked branches in accusation pointing


At those who made sure its spirit died,


Those whose fate and its were once one.


 


A time it was, eons ago it now seems to it.


Change had passed by when it was still


In its glory.


Its brothers had said to it:


“in this new change trust”.


They said it led to a new height.


And so it trusted, and so lost.


Now its fallen with no more strength to fight.


 


The once glistening branches


Are now black in death and decay;


Bedecked once with leaves


but now stark and bare.


 


Once upon a land there stood a tree


Whose crooked branches


 in accusation still point.


 


 


 


The change sent rain


Which away the soil upon which it stood.


The change sent wind


Which pushed it down on its side.


It also sent heat


The heat gladly scorched its leaves.


Next, hunger


Which hollowed out its trunk.


Finally, it sent fear


And fear killed its spirit.


^


Across a great divide, stood another tree


whose rounded trunk and plump leaves


be naught else but a parody of our tree.


Their fate was once one


But no more:


From the change it had stole soft cleansing rain


From which there was much freshness to gain.


It stole fair wind


Which made its leaves sing together it seemed


Also it stole soothing heat


Whose balmy touch made the leaves more fit.


It learnt much of hunger-


Always hungry for more it got fatter.


Finally it learnt to live with fear-


Building forts, guarding its comforts with care.


 


Where goes our tale?


The fallen tree, the cheated masses;


The great divide, the gap between classes;


The rounded tree, gluttonous elites;


The so-called change, elites rotating seats.


 


From this game which deserves no name,


They create an order serving them and no other


And within this order, they work by a dogma:


“government of  our class,


for our class, by our class”,


and with a fervor the trodden mass


cannot outclass.


 


And so on this spacious and rich expanse


Stands our trampled tree


With broken and crooked branches


Pointing accusingly at that other tree


Whose round trunks are


Confined within forts,


And between them


And in stately repose is that chasm-


The great and damning divide.


 


 

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