From a seed I did grow
But what fruits have I to show?
Hanging off me are but withered leaves
And dying flowers hanging like empty sheaths.
Where are my thorns that had protected me?
Or my gardeners that had promised to tend me?
My bark is falling
My branches bent
My trunk is hollow
My canopy rent.
What does it matter, what they had said
When at the end of the day, their words are dead?
The pleasant words they spoke, the vows they made
Now exist nowhere but in my head.
They helped some flowers, pulled out a few weeds
But did they really do 'good deeds'?
The garden has perished
Only death remains
Nothing but decay
Is found along the lanes.
Who can save us now?
Can we be saved? And how?
From who can Hope be drawn?
Can we cease being forlorn?