Gnarled in an earthen pot, a contrast to the plain parapet,
Is a tree, great in age but small in size,
Bearded with dust-coated leaves
And smiling gently through its wrinkled bark.
It yawns and stretches at dawn,
Its leaves chatting merrily with the tumbling winds,
Its roots engaged in philosophical discussion
With a friendly earthworm.
It laughs heartily with the mountains
That pierce a golden sky;
Then gazes long at their enormous trees
That have been awoken by birdsong
And now peer into a shady chasm
Wondering what new marvels
The swift river is carving.
It gathers from an aged crow,
A frequent visitor- necessary tidings,
And can only imagine the world
That lies beyond the run-down walls
And static horizon,
Though grateful it is
For a life sheltered from calamities.
Well, the clouds have turned white
And the mists have been lifted
From the valley overflowing with greenery;
The one who tends the little tree
Has come to sit beside it
And gaze at the mist-shrouded peaks
Surrounding the old age home.