If we were trees
Would we bloom to our fullest in the
spring,
and embrace the autumn with grace?
Would we bear with the thirst of feverish
dry leaves for months,
and then let the drops seep in,
dissolve all angst in one go?
Would we flow with the wind, and
sing with the birds
only to let them go fly away,
without a wince?
Would we not get attached to the travelers
taking refuge in our shade,
to the birds-of-passage, to our own
leaves?
Would be breathe the joy of giving
relentlessly,
without getting tired, without the
thought of self?
Would not pomposity poison our
veins,
crawling into our state of being,
becoming one with it?
Would we not look down upon shrubs,
and envy the ones higher and greener
than us?
Would we be bound in the ritual
threads, or worshipped as deities,
and smile at human folly, stay
rooted and calm?
Would we still remain rooted,
while being shaken by the storms,
hollowed down by the forest fire?
Would we still smile, and be at
peace with each bud and flower,
while the chains of our own greatness bruise us, make us bleed?
Would not the infinite stillness slowly
grow into meaninglessness,
and consume us, empty us out?
Could we help being human, if we
were trees?
