The Proud Sycamore Poem by Emilija Balseviciute

The nature of nature is imperfect and defective
The ugly duckling and infected tree
We, humans, built from the ground up
Improvised, unscripted, devised
As an elaborate machine to carry out the simple functions:
Heart; pumping, muscles; contracting.
The sycamore's bark cracked and peeled shows her mellowness
Through her ‘defects' that he, the Birch, decided were ugly and impure.
(Impurity results in DESERVED animosity he jeers.)

But I with my ugliness, punctured skin, cracked bark, falling leaves,
Find it hard to nurse the sick Birch's beliefs.
And as I continue to age and my trunk grows into
A large, fractured, discoloured, twisted mess;
I will grow even more distant from his tastes
and the Birch will have to cope and watch me evolve
Into the grand sycamore tree I was improvised to be.