The Poor Tree Appeals Poem by Trailakya Roy

The poor tree appeals, 'Cut me not
I give you shelter in sun and hot,
I give you rain, I give you peace,
Taking all poisons, do oxygen release,


I give you honey, I give you song,
Give you food, is it wrong?
Stop erosion and flood, give you shades,
Give you honey, rain, and all your beds.


Do you think me still a foe?
If not, then throw axe, and go.
Plant my child for your good,
And save my mates, no more loot.


But the cruel hearts feel it not,
And the blind eyes see it not.
Hands are ready to cut the tree,
To be civilised and jungle free.


The tree is helpless, stands still,
When man does not see and feel.
The poor tree still does appeal,
Save my life, do not kill.


But the dead hearts see it not.
The poor tree appeals, 'Cut me not'.
The poor tree appeals, 'Cut me not'.
The poor tree appeals, 'Cut me not'.