When a leaf stops dancing to the music of life, and the melody of the birds has ceased, it changes to yellow and gently falls off the tree of life.

Hussein Dekmak

A sycamore speaks
with its unique semaphore
giving voice to air and sky
while giving little away

A sycamore shouts its story on repeat
giving unasked for directions
to the climbers above, the writers beneath
urging them to walk down circuitous routes
with no hint of the true path it found
knowing we have to find our own.

A blackbird sings and a kestrel sighs
both telling their sister to hush
exhorting us to watch their greater eloquence
and to listen to a higher voice.

You sow seeds of your life,

By your own self.

You wish that they survive,

Without others' help.


You put some water of affection,

And desire for a vibrant leaves collection.

You anticipate it show the true inner reflection.


You wish the plant to grow soon,

It peaks out and sees the brutality.

You take care of it in the blazing afternoon,

So that it doesn't adapts to the causality.


You wish it to grow into a sturdy brawny tree,

Which gives fruits and blooms flowers,

Which can be set free,

And is full of vie and power.


Once it's usual to the surroundings,

People come and go.

And say bad words cursily

The tree- it's morals go low.


The imaginations and expectations

All are failed.

Full of scars and suctions

You now sailed.

Back to - from where you came.

No guilt, no regret, no shame.

You think to earn more fame,

Making your life truly lame.


The tree without you died,

Because it had no hope.

Are you still capable to say "it's mine"

It is long gone.

Found me out in the
Sycamore tree, swaying soft
On an evening breeze