Ultimately, our monarch shall decay,
Like each of us who live beneath the sky.
No longer do his rosy blossoms sway;
Black leaves reveal he too was born to die.
Once supple roots expanding underground
Are rung and ripped from their sustaining base
And summer sun scalds his trunk all around,
Burns bark along the corpse’s roughened face.
Though memories still linger on the breeze,
Of ripened cherries once in bloom anew,
Harsh winters disfigured him fighting freeze;
His days were numbered, all his subjects knew. Across fall fields where friends and I still play,
His offspring flourish, fuller by the day.

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