Our past, our roots till shoot they must,

and bloom whether first or late,

We share the leaves to mankind’s book,

and pack our trunks with faith

We then so branch inside our souls

limbs flailing in the wind

For some their bark is worse than bite

ne’er to be buds again,

Ironically our roots now lay,

as part our family tree

and yet our choice in life remains

bud, leaf, branch or limb

which are we to be?

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