Banyan’s Lament
From temple court
I am Grandma of Ficus benghalensis
and today, my child, I cry.
My sari-like roots once swung with laughter,
small hands curled around them
like bangles of joy.
But now,
only the wind touches me-
and even the wind feels like a stranger.
Children once played in my shade,
dancing circles around my trunk,
pressing their faces against my bark
as if listening to an ancient story.
Their giggles lived in my branches,
their memories wrapped around my roots.
But where are they now?
What path stole them away from me?
Birds once perched on every limb-
sparrows, myna, parrots-
pecking at my figs,
singing dawn into my leaves.
Now only bats visit in passing,
their shadows slipping across my tired skin
like fleeting ghosts of a world fading.
Even they do not stay.
Have generations disappeared?
Are the stories of the forest unraveling?
My roots thirst for the waters
that once embraced them.
I reach deep,
deeper than memory,
but the streams that nursed me
have withered into silence.
My bark is splitting-
cracked open into painful ridges,
wounds where termites
build their small kingdoms.
The earth that once held me
like a mother
now feels like a grave
slowly forming around my feet.
And I-
I have no legs to run,
no wings to flee,
only this soil that binds me
to a destiny I cannot escape.
Under the sun, I burn.
Each vein in my leaves
struggles to breathe.
The moon that once soothed me
now hangs faded, weary,
as if even night has forgotten
how to comfort a tree.
Yet, in the quiet of my sorrow,
a story still beats within me.
A fragile rhythm-
the echo of life I sheltered,
the echo of a world
I still hope for.
Come closer, child.
Place your hand on my bark.
Feel my heartbeat-
weak, yes… but honest.
The last pulse of an old world
still believing in tomorrow.
If I fall,
a piece of your sky will fall with me.
But if you listen-
truly listen-
you will hear my whisper:
life is not over.
Roots can rise again.
Forests can return.
From every fallen leaf,
a future can begin anew.
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