The old dead tree stood on a hill,
An ugliness of jagged rot,
In looming form so dark and still
Against the sun - a lonely blot.
My folks had told me not to play
Around that tree; and so of course
I headed for it right away,
Drawn by its mysterious force.
There was an urge I would not stop.
Responding to the luring spell,
I climbed up to the very top.
But, then I slipped and down I fell.
A limb reached out and grabbed me round,
Setting me safely on the ground.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.