Wilting Leaves
When I was young,
My mother spoke to me in a foregin tongue.
I argued, stating the roots of a tree, kept from being free.
Told me that quite often,
Said my bark would never soften.
Not until my leaves started falling,
Did I start recalling,
Although my leaves wilt
Rapidly from my guilt.
Time will aid the rebirth
Of all made, grown from earth.
Hope should never wither
As rapture will hither.
This poem is about:
Me
My family
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