I am just like the tree whose roots
grow stronger during the storm,
standing firmer,
on the same very spot,
whom despite the changing of seasons
remains the same
unlike others'
whose roots
and branches bend and twist
to please, and to deceive
the eye of the wayfarer
who's lost in the vast field.
If you are a weed, you can't pretend you're a rose
if you are a bush you can't pretend you're a tree.
The fruits that you offer are tainted
and bitter, as you grew them
hastly, over night
like your everchanging purpose
of your "life".
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem