The swaying bamboo tree is I growing lonesome in the south,
Building my own distinction, standing firm while voice is shout.
My stem is firmly set in midst of thunder and storm.
And my roots are filled with hopeless pestilence worm.
The sunrises witnessed the blusters of wind in my body,
Asserting how alone is I without any single buddy.

I’m trying to be dependent on my own thin trunk of rectitude.
A sad tree during drought in needs of solicitude!
My leaves are slowly falling and my hands are dying,
Still I am letting the birds and its brood in my palm while lying.
Though some layers of my trunk is being incise by my master,
Still I live for centuries to prevent the disaster.

I witnessed the change in routine of every individual.
While I keep on inspecting there unsurpassed destiny in visual.
The constructive tree is I before, but now it is their selfish reverie,
Still I plunk here and will always lend my camaraderie.
Appreciation is not I need, though in reality it is everybody’s necessity.
Coz it is your waited change I am seeking for to accomplish the purpose of my divinity.