The Lost Seed

Mournful, the moon lights
hallowed paths of pilgrims.
They leave their lands to trek
the trail of gold.

Wistful, the wind fans
sand onto faltering feet.
They drag north of the Sahara,
lured by a pitiless mirage.

Somber, the stars blink feebly
down on Africa's seed flailing
in torrents that lash
with liquid fury, drowning dreams.

Weary, a tree broods at the root,
clutching at its hollowed womb
its seed driven in gales to seek
faraway lands.

Mournful is the moon
wistful is the wind
somber are the stars.

Few of the seed will return.
The mother tree weeps.

Molara Wood