Silent as they've grown in deep water's bed
seeing up above the bottom, down a sledge
their short-sight shoots, its branches zooms
to tame the blue sky as it blooms.
Their delicate roots crawl in softly mud
where tiny fishes gathered as their habitat;
they stand like twigs of those green meadows
a sight-reach pole beneath, in a space windows.
Their bodies when cut, knitly weaved and daubed
will surely serve like a shepherd's swampland hub;
with sticky slime and pitch they merrily glow
Oh yes, they flag in beauty at riverbank's brow.

by Gil Gregorio

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