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Leaving its forest,
leaving its kin,
a tree wandered into the city—
its branches waving like hands,
its leaves murmuring in restless tongues.
Like every city,
this one too bore
a hidden past,
a history pushed into shadow,
and the glitter of surging modernity.
Broad roads unfurled,
vehicles streamed like rivers,
flyovers arched and flowed
with the rhythm of music.
The tree gazed
at fallen forts, broken walls,
at glass towers, metros, and airports.
It swelled with wonder.
For years it had known
only the heat of the sun
only the coolness of moonlight
Now, dazzled by colored beams
by flickering bulbs and neon blaze
it froze in astonishment.
“Why stand here,
blocking my shop front?”
The shopkeeper barked.
Startled, the tree shuffled forward,
arriving at a crossroad.
“What’s this tree doing here?
Hasn’t the municipality the sense
to cut it down?”
Someone sneered.
The tree, frightened,
hurried on.
Then—greenery
It paused in relief.
But a passerby shoved it away:
“These are for balconies,
for rooftops, for pots.
There’s no place for you here.”
Trembling,
its life clutched tight in its palms,
The tree whispered to itself:
Better to survive than be destroyed.
And so it turned back
to the forest,
to its own kind,
to the shelter of belonging.
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Image Copyright - Varala Anand |
