Of The Sycamore Tree Poem by Adeosun Olamide

A peace I dwelt, a delightful barren tree
Keen in the savior they say that comes,
That my gaze if hold his shadow, the ambiance
To cure, my plight, my barrenness
And a peace I dwelt, a delightful barren tree

And a young savior was he-
That by his whisper, the season heeds
That by his amble, deserts springs ocean
And by his touch, a barren comes lush
And in a peace I dwelt, a delightful barren tree

But a young savorless savior was he-
Or not, all savorless be- when captive, hunger
For on his soul angst did brew- towards,
Towards me, the delightful barren tree
That born a curse- to lie at my delight

"Dost my hunger cause thee_ delight?
-Woe upon thee, whir upon thee, thy roots
Barren, wither! None ever -shall have of ye"

And by a god not to hunger, to madness- immune
And by a savior that be captor- deaf?
Come so my whisper, about the season,
The season that cause me barren,
Come so my whisper in pale color worn
But a season is a season-
And though hot, it made him mad
A season is a season-
And must go, must come
That I a delightful tree- must bear alone, this woe
But a season is a season-
And even trees dead- comes a season

And shriveled, I did fall,
Made into a cross-
For the vengeance that ons-

I am the cross of cavalry,
That tree -your hunger made you curse
Barren, I did wither,
Withered, I again yield-
Here is thy fruit, eat it!
Gather the plaque that spread,
Eat it! Thy fruit
I am the cross of cavalry,
That tree- your hunger made you curse
Carry your dead, vengeance is here,
-Fulfilled in me!
As I, the sycamore tree ever rests