High on the bough, sustenance is scarce to find,
Ears deaf to cries, no solace to the mind.
As dawn doth break, the cicadas’ song doth cease,
The tree stands tall, unyielding, with no release.
An official adrift, a branch on the tide,
Home now forsaken, a desolate pride.
I thank thee for the warning,
As I too, live a life austere, yet adorning.
Image: MidJourney/DALL-E 2