I looked up at my mama.
There were light wrinkles on her skin.
She looked down at me with her big smile,
her fingers caressing my chin.
It was our story night that day,
so she told me about trees.
She talked about roots and branches,
and leaves swaying with the breeze.
"A tree represents a family", she said,
with strong ancestry, like roots.
The branches are like relations,
that bears little, bright fruits.
Sometimes, the fruit is sour.
Sometimes, the fruit is sweet.
Sometimes, the fruit fails.
Just like the relations we keep.
And sometimes, there's a decay,
and the branch needs to be cut.
"Because the tree will fall",
she told me, "if left uncut".
The branches are so different,
and yet so same.
Just like family members,
with a same surname.
Just like friends, with same thinking,
every relation, has a different linking.
For without these branches and fruits,
the tree is just wood, like teak.
"So without relations",
she said, "you are nothing, but weak".
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
