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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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Recent poems by Hassan Abdul
•  Passing my time
•  Estranged family
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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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