On a fine morning, in a cold winter,
The crimson haired man hadn’t started his stroll- in the east;
Hadn’t cast the bright rays of light on the sand;
And the trees and grass were covered with snow,
Looked very dull and dim and still;
Spread a halo of fear and awfulness.
There lived a young child-
Who was given shelter in the huge bungalow-
Where lived an old man;
Deserted, lonely and weary.
Came the man, out of the bungalow
Cuddled and cajoled the child
Took his arms, in his hand,
Walked briskly towards the oak tree-
Stood under its shade; turned back;
Pointed to the green meadow around.
Narrated in his own style- as the lips moved-
The grasses surrounding the trees were not covered by a flat roof;
The trees and grass were ice chilled and trembled in the snow
Screamed and wept: alas! No one heard,
Tears were rolled on their face-
As drops of dew on the leaves.
The oak tree had grown tall and tall
Its head almost touched the horizon-
Stretched its mighty arms, to all sides-
Couldn’t lend a blanket
Couldn’t embrace the grasses and trees in the chest;
Couldn’t spread warmth around them.
So they wept and wept, as the tree
Stood still; looked on and on- in vain.
****
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