The broken heart...

That sapling,
The tiny, vulnerable, malnourished one,
Which nobody ever cared for,
Let alone nurture...
Born out of a thrown away seed,
While the fruit was consumed in greed,
Withered this evening, dried up beyond hope.
God was studying English classics.
Or at times, American ones.
He had been reading The Happy Prince,
And The Last Leaf to his angels...
And was telling them,
You won't find a broken heart,
A dead swallow, or a painted leaf,
In today's rotten world.
He was sitting in heaven,
Right above its personal hell, and,
Because God's voice reaches the devoted,
And in their hearts He dwells,
The dying sapling could hear Him;
It sighed, and said...
Why? Am I not dead yet?

PS - this poem has a history and a reason. I don't feel like telling the reason as yet. The history is what I confessed to my best friend when we were in college. That when love is born between man and woman, it is like a sapling. A baby tree who needs constant care, recognition and appreciation. At times one of the two is unaware of the love, often uncaring, or reluctant. Because people suffer from uncertainty, their minds change. Then the sapling dies. Uncared for, alone...