I am the Non-Bearing Tree [POEM]

Alone, sitting on an iron chair,

staring at a rusty window,

listening to a rustling wind.

I smell the fume of burning

dried twigs and leaves

from the dying non-bearing tree.

And still, it presence make me feel

as I am not the only one

who is dying from the prickly heat.

And now, alone as the non-bearing tree

without a fragrance and blooming flowers.

We, with this dying creature,

accept who we used to be---

A slum amidst of wealthy town;

a whore amidst of honorable man.

As we still stood to furnish,

to live and not to let die.

We, the standing emblem

of pursuing and persevering one.