When I was a child, I remember having a friend.
He was so small that he depended on me instead.
My mother called him beautiful as the sky,
But his mother wanted to make him tough—
To support the wild.

He was like a brother to me,
Always a part of my scenery.
Gave me shade when I needed,
Sometimes fruits
Or some woods—so considerate of me.

But when I grew old, he grew older.
Even though he has a long life,
He started to stutter.
“Oh Mother!” I gasped,
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

She gently called me outside
And asked:
“Is your scenery the same, or has it been deprived?”

--Red_magicwand