13 February 2013
Tiny leafy fingertips, Striving towards the light, Climb on arms of progress, Gaining, gaining height.
Happily they rustle, Achieving their great quest, As light that they are catching, Sinks down into the west.
And yet, when the moon rises, The empress of the night, The trees, they groan in anguish, Always longing for the light.
But what do we all strive for? Our work, our wants, our deeds; We scramble toward an end of night That few of us achieve.
On Trees • Opuss № I