The Oak Tree.

I watch them fall, I watch them fly, the children of my toil.
Some float, some soar, but in the end they all return to soil.
They yearn to stretch their roots and grow into a proud oak tree.
Working their hardest as they strive to stand proud and tall like me.
I remember my seedling years. My friends who grew and thrived.
But most of all, I remember all my friends who tried and died.
Not everyone one will make it, but my seedlings don't yet know.
I won't tell them, they don't need to hear.
I'll let the little ones keep their hope.
I remember when I was sprouting and my aspiration to be,
Just as tall and strong and pure as my fathers who came before me.
I took my roots, stretched my limbs and reached up to heaven on high.
And as I reached, and as I grew my soul began to fly.
Everyday I grew in strength and also grew in girth,
Until today when from my limbs you, my children, where given birth.
All of this blows through my mind as wind blows through my leaves.
And so it's been through all of time, and so it always must be.
For if it weren't for tiny seedlings, who then would be the trees?

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