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Stub, stub, tree.
Yes, they were three.
In heaven are the two
so what should the last do?

Beautiful time has gone
and now? Alone. Alone.
Without him and without her
no more lovely magic smell.

Don't be sad, my dear
play with stubs – still are here
but please, do not really try
touch the heaven, look at sky.

Beware of touches. And no winks!
Monumental plan? Now sinks
like one of little maple leaves.
Humour gets bad. Energy leaves.

You know, still the tree
can say „I'm free“
but it's really why to cry
if „we“ cannot change the „I“.