The Wounded Tree Poem by Chukwuebuka Adebayo

There was a tree of my ecstasy,
And its ways you too will applaud;
Its arms, did shield sorts of canary,
If storm blows away earth and skies:
And the tempests and ungentle flaw,
Frights brave ones to find their hides

She's out, blasted wet and cold,
Losing those never-blushing flower;
With sweet fruits blooming manifold
After the bolts are gone, old and young
Sowles and bends her green hands lower,
Some whipped her clubs, scythe and prong.

Oft stones, Some cuts her with knife,
She cries sour saps, night and day:
Bleeds ugly pain like a labouring wife,
Her barks peeling down as bulwark of troy
She grew worse, her roots turned gray;
And as mushroom kicked by little boy.

She fell, her flowers, fruits, nests__fell
No soft wind blew, upon her gount lave
No man came around to raise her upwell
All buntings flew, no sounding tune nor trill
O tree! you are hurt for good things you have
Like virtuous men slashed, lying queit and still.