TreeMe
Reaching up to the sky
So very, very high
Spreading out in the air
Standing silent in despair
Growing roots down the ground
Flinching at every little sound
Being there wherther sun or rain
An inevitable part of a chain
Seeing day go in night
Having no curage left to fight
Feeling cold most the time
When did existing become a crime?
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Skriven sommaren 2012
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