The giving tree,
a petty reality.
Sacrificer it is,
source of true bliss.

An old folk or a young baby twig, giver.
It ain't bound, still gives away zephyr.

The nature's call, a friend thought out.
Cooling agent, if even a little sprout.

Nay complains, selfless beings they are.
Such a mystery, but now their existence scars.

Sheds no tears, nor screams in pain.
Ah... If only we could be the same.