She liked to pray by the knotted old tree
On the hill facing the restless sea.
She called it her, “Prayer Tree, ”
Because, she said, “It’s old and gnarled like me.”
Then she blessed herself, and groaning sank to her knees.
She clasped her twisted hands, and asked, “Why?
Why me? I’ve done no evil, or hurt no one.
Why must I go to where there is none
Of the faces or things that I love?
Why is my life almost done? ”