Poem: The Tree Of Babel.

The tree of Babel,
I call it that, for it had no name,
But its face; wrinkled, entrenched— gullied—
Seemed older than God and taller, and scarier—
It was gnarled and weather-beaten;
Its bowers swayed like gyrating ghouls,
Sweeping the shade in a whistle of listless songs.
Its fruits, as abundant and as diverse,
As the dialects blossoming in my neighbourhood—
We all understood it different, but feared it the same—
Curiosity outmatched; its mystery was as vast as it was endearing.
Even as the years faded it’s mystery,
None of us still dared climb it—not for fear of its bleeding bark;
Or its overgrown roots that stood up like sentinels,
Or the oval mouths that opened up along its ridged trunk—
Saying nothing with its harrowing tongue.
But if we finally climbed its top, ended its mystery, then what next?
We couldn’t answer that, we loved the mystery,
Yet we should’ve known,
That climbing is made, only for climbing’s sake—
Not to peel the face off nature—
Not to stare at the mask of God…