How Could I Ever Cut A Tree I'd Just Sown?

By Jaesryna Sachdeva

I was a kid, when I was cycling late at night.

I did something that would keep me bound.

stepping into an endless plight, 

I did it, for my parents weren’t around.

thinking no-one would know,

thinking not a trace would show.

thinking it would remain in a burrow,

thinking it highly low.

little did I think,

when you take a bicycle into water,

It leads to your own slaughter.

for the tire leaves a trail that earlier ceased to exist, 

now tainted forevermore, water-kissed.

so when I returned back home, 

carefree like the kid I was,

infertile now, when I used to be loam.

forever down the hill, when I was about to exit the trough. 

my parents saw the trail, 

they felt they should’ve seen it before. 

all our hearts became frail,

cause how could I ever cut a tree I’d just sown? 

I could just not give it care.

I could pray it didn’t grow.

but what if someone else saw it and helped it?

how could I ever cut a tree, whose seed I’d just sown?

water is a drug. water is sin.

and it doesn’t just evaporate.

no, this one stays.

and it kills you of thirst, 

if you don’t drink it again.

maybe someday, just maybe

after years of sunlight have dehydrated the tires,

maybe you’ll get to see the water burning  in the fire. 

only if your heart doesn’t desire, 

to do it all again.

By Jaesryna Sachdeva