The Bleeding Tree

by Prof. Murali Sivaramakrishnan



There’s a tree that bleeds on the hill, Or so they say. Each time In the valley a tree is cut or a branch Broken, a leaf plucked, it bleeds. Now, I have crossed the river And taken the roving path Across the valley. There’s no tree Where they said it stood. It must have become A piece of wood Or a chair or table A window frame or door knob. Someone has even thoughtfully Gouged out its roots—there’s only a mount Of burnt grass here. The sun is setting beyond the valley. The river has darkened. And now in the distant hills All trees are bleeding, all day.

Image © (c) S Murali

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Comments on this Poem

Very touching. Elevating thoughts. Let our hearts bleed.

Madathil Rajendran Nair
17-Feb-2013 03:32 AM