O little big tree,
trapped in the reality
betwixt the eight corners of humanity!
Now undead,
Will you share your tales of dread
with me?
O little big tree!
Will you keep mum
As the spring sprints on
to you?
Will you not mumble a word,
O little big tree,
Perhaps, you wish to grow
Tall and broad,
A piece of monstrosity.
The reply
I speak,
But with you not,
You belong to an awful lot.
Too cold winters
Too hot summers,
The springs are lesser youthful,
O little human,
be truthful
Is this not all your doing?
And yet,
And yet you ask me questions.
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