Me and Tree
I am still meandering, and meandering
in a bucolic trailway since morning
but still away from the end station –
the designated line of demarcation
where the sun closes the door
to explore the window of its moonish floor.
Trees stand unmoved throughout this audited trail
who never leave axis in quest of their mail;
only the knitting souls of prime
riding on the wings of time
throws the platoons of roots in mute seclusion
in the boundary of its boundless isolation.
The unmoved trees who never sleep
always feel the roots are moving deep;
we are moving leaving the roots forever
but the moving roots do it never, and never.
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