I am a tree
with my roots deeply grounded
in the musty soil
of the forest
I am chained
even when the heavy storm bites with its sharp watery teeth
deep into my skin of leaves,
I cannot move an inch
to meet and greet the other trees
to shake branches with them,
although I can grow up tall,
tall enough to take a peek
at the far away thin line of the horizon,
with its skin ripped off,
by the forest jagged back,
while my canopy whispers
words of joy, and words of pain
under the manly caress
of the free wind
All I want
is to reach out
to my fellow trees,
to touch their rough skins
with my knotted, vigorous branches
My dreams are real:
I have birds with colorful feathers
and sleek bodies,
playing in my tangled hair of leaves,
and I wish them to fly high up,
to pierce the stretched canvas of the sky,
look behind it,
where the earth cannot pull them down
anymore,
and the stars are not strong enough to pull them in
yet,
where the gravity becomes just a disease
in the past,
or in the future,
and the present
is being happy and free of any gravitational constraint
But all these birds do
is finding rest
into the comfortable, motherly arms
of another canopy
and none of my dreams are going through the door
of the colorless sky,
and none of my dreams are coming back,
to rest on my shoulders
tired of so much waiting
