An Ode to the Tree

There is a tall, sturdy tree outside the windowpane.
It sits sometimes with the silence of mountains —
Sometimes it stirs with the violence of storms.

There must be agony outside this humming head.
The tree shivers in incessant fears.
Overhead the tree, birds are fleeing despite their heart-woven nests.
At the bottom of the tree, a squirrel is bound to be a squirrel forever.

Everything all around are bound to be themselves.
What ghastlier tragedy is there than this —
To exist in the painstaking details of oneself —
While only few fragments appeal to us?

Maybe it is just this lunatic mind painting this whole world with its colors.
Because in the frequent observation of the tree in its ever-changing states,
There never were days when the tree yearned for the wings of birds.

Maybe the tree serves the world the most by being a tree.
But if the mind dared to stop forcing its opinions into the world —
What does the tree care about the furnitures trapped inside?