When I was young,
I had a tiny sapling.
I swore an oath to care for it.
Rainwater and sunlight nurtured it,
as my parents nurtured me.
It grew lively, and so did I.
I cared for it every day,
spoke to it every day.
It was always fresh—
like my smile.
It grew into a young plant,
and so did I.
But some leaves began to wither,
like my spirit.
I had no time to see it often,
no time to care for it often.
The liveliness faded in it,
and so it faded in me.
It grew into a tree,
and so did I.
But I no longer saw the life in it,
as I no longer saw it in myself.
Now the leaves are withered entirely,
branches bare,
like my life.
There is a need for a new tree,
yet I fear it may wither too.
I cannot leave the old one behind,
and I am afraid
to plant the new.
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