автор: Girasol

There`s an old tree in my backyard
Tall and proud, and ageless,
Heavy with memories,
Full of dreams,
Aiming at the heavens.

It remembers stories of lifetimes -
Beautiful, horrible, sad.
Its leaves appear fragile
Mature, grow crimson,
And finally shed.

My tree is a witness of passions -
Engorging, devouring, fatal.
It keeps secrets of centuries,
Of lovers, of children,
Of whole generations.

Seasons change inside my tree
Through blossoms, flurries and wind.
It changes shades,
It fights the breeze
Forever standing still.