Limbs are twisted, churned up in pain,
Begging the heavens for one drop of rain.
They cry out, "God!" and shake in the breeze,
Still flowing with beauty, these ever dying trees.
Their thirst will not quench ‘till spring arrives,
Until then they pray, they shake, and they die.
They survive somehow, every year,
Come back to life after clinging to fear.
When the cold winds blow, they bend and twist,
But they don't give up. How is this?
Their beautiful greens turned brown and bare,
Some limbs fall down and still lie there.
But they stay the course, and live again,
Though beaten and broken, it's not their end.
Whenever we're filled with pain and strife,
Remember the trees and fight for life.
Because just as winter makes us cold,
Spring will come, when the story is told.
