The tree tells the mistletoe
To suck her sap with ease
And stop stretching his tent.
The mistletoe sneers and snarls
And many more tents he pitches.
But does he know his life
On this sapling depends?
Just as my Big Brother,
He does not remember the one
He robbed to this height attain!
And so the mistletoe sucks
As though it were a contest.
Day by day green leaves turn yellow.
(And all the sap sapped)
Tree looks like the cursed fig
And she finally bows down to death.
Still the mistletoe sucks and sucks harder
Till his tongue and lips bleed
And all his teeth stick to her breasts.
But could he anything see to suck again?
With all his mansion–like tent, he too dies.
And so I wonder as I ponder –
Does my Big Brother know…?
I live for him to live?
meet the poet: John Eva
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.