Twas a horrible thing to think the leaves were dead?
Well, ita quite a mistake, for more sprouted upon my head
They hustle, bustle, and rustle about,
Pluck one, begets two, pluck two, then comes more
Lively, disgusting, merry little flora
A desiccant bough brought forth verdant life,
the frustration is rampant and laden with strife.

A curse perhaps worse than those wrought when I shout,
to be struck by the Cycle, as Earthen devout.
I shall not falter or stammer,
my duty persists limb for limb,
May we never know peace,
should fifty more grow on a Goddesses whim.

Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 13th of Chakros, in the year 502 MA.