In the center of the field stood a old yet strong sycamore;

It unleashed its children upon this world on a spring morning.

And the small and insignificant souls grew into seedlings.

Their awakening growth was unseen and visible to none,

But just as soon they heard, above the ground, a clattering sound,

They opened up their infant branches into the morning rain.

Yet ignorant me, when I wandered in the morning rain,

I heard a snap as I walked the fields of the sycamore.

The tiny crackling snap was, and was the only sound,

Other than the whisper of rain in this dreary morning.

I lowered my shoulders down to see, and I noticed none

but the shattered body of a lone sycamore seedling.

Oh, but am I to morn the demise of this seedling,

When I am to see the field during this dreary rain

And see the ground of which I stand on, covered by none

But the many children of the ancient sycamore.

Alas only one would not survive this drear morning,

And may the light rain drown out the rude murderous sound.

For the beige days following, I heard no slight sound

That would remind me of my murder of the seedling.

Yet, today when I walked the fields in the morning,

when I journey pass the lands once covered by rain,

I see the many children of the sycamore

Have been massacred and reduced, barely to none.

The snaps of the many have been heard by none,

and their dying calls of a most pain filled sound

Happened and will happen by the sycamore.

The steps have drowned out the cries of the seedlings,

And how many will be left after the rain

Of another, cruel and dreary morning?

When I checked once more in the gray morning,

The few seedlings have been reduced to none.

When I heard the cries of the sleeping rain,

I heard with it another painful sound,

Of the mother of the many seedlings:

The silent weeps of the old sycamore.