Beneath the bowers of our tree,
I curl against the twisted roots.
Head wrapped in coarse sack I cower,
As the beasts sing a midnight hymn.
The soil’s embedded in my wrinkles,
And clogs up my throat.
Arms bound together,
And worms tickling my sunken skin;
And I feel them trample on the ground above,
Like a whip lashing against bare flesh.
They strung me up like a wind chime,
And I blew freely in the breeze.
Until they cut me down and I crumpled.
The blossom and the leaves have covered my frail form,
And I am hidden from their history,
In my darkened tomb;
Below the tree with our names engraved,
That fades more each day.
