Young and Old

An old tree talks…

Lovely intwined by time's engraves,
riding a ride never beholds its rhyme.
My youth, stands on my elderly bones,
and my wisdom turned out a crime.

Weeping not should I be,
life is life and living we must.
Mistaken my tears O son,
as for the cruelty of that dust.

Harsh skin I wear and ugly,
warms me through the playful night.
Alas who keeps the mind unwary,
when cold hearts sweep me in delight?

Alone I vowed to have my walk,
despite the youth bought and sold.
And if not for life's attitude,
what else for then, O son,
the young rides upon that old?