All those tall trees at the end of February,
Waiting naked, patiently for spring to be free,
Most branches upward, like Muslim prayers.
Soaking in the rain, which is a heavenly boon, or tears,
Sleeping into twilight, one more windy night.
The closing night might bring a frozen fear,
Still another cycle of life, spring is near.
Are they begging, praying or rebelling against the sky?
But the untouchable, unreachable sky is too high.
Still, luckily, they are having many cycle of life,
Years after years for flowers or some fruits to bear,
Which is much better than the one cycle of a man’s life.
Only one spring, one summer and winter is the end of strife.
That forever puzzles me: no one wants to see,
Questioning the Gods, and all hopeless humanity.
Mortality for me should never ever be a necessity,
But still all philosophers give me deadly advice;
If I believe them, I will become a mechanical device.
What I would like, one day my dream God may realise.