A WITHERED TREE

I am a withered tree and my stories are tasteless. I cannot live with a boat. Here, on my land, there is no love, no poems, and all you see is withering death. Our homes are filled with bitterness, and our grass is not green. Our daughters are fields of sorrow, and our youth are mirrors of wars. Yes, we are victims of blind killing, even though our clothes are white, our feet are flawless, and there is no blood on our fingers.