Thinks the ancestral banyan under the April Sun,
Of its moonlight-scented shade of youth;
Thinks the defeated water caressing the coast sands,
Of its foamy, bubbling height of pride;
Thinks the grey-crested mother bird in the gloomy woods,
Of the blooming times that it fed the nest;
Thinks the drought wind treading the parched lands,
Of its promising touch with the lush green fields;
Thinks the orphaned cold stone by the dried river bed,
Of its majestic stand on the mountain’s crown;
Thinks the serene soul engorged with hurricane experiences,
Of the aeons dipped in honey-golden lustre;
Thinks the descending tear under gravity,
Of the creamy, camouflaging smiles,
Of thoughtless charity.
Lies, they all are, comrades;
Lies, of course.