Our life is like an old oak,
we have roots, dug in the soil

Roots in the middle of soft ground
and other around rocks
But sometimes they're cutted down or rot,
'cause they can't survive
in those environment

We have trunk, strong, hard,
but that bleeds, blaze,
and leave on us marks, forcing us to remember

We have branches, long,
that reach remote distances
Some are beautiful and loaded,
other twisted and sickned

Some strong and trusty,
other not much
We have fruit, sweety, balmy
Some are bitter and poisonous,
some will rot, some will fall,
some will mark it deeply those
who taste them

We have leaves
that get lost if the wind is too strong,
or if some part of the tree has been hurt

That feel and fall
for having no more life,
choking and drying little by little...

The fruit...
The branches...
The trunk...
The roots...
Leaving the tree dryed and dead

Sometimes we can see our leaves falling,
our fruit rotting, our branches wriggling,
our trunk marked and our root torn to pieces

But we still have seeds, and if
our tree hasn't been planted,

it's fall will fertilize the soil,
where another tree can live...