WHERE THE RUBBER GROWS

There is a forest in the north,
And its trees weep white;
Where the rubber grows.

In drifting mists of morning light,
They stand right dressed;
As soldiers know.

These men of the south,
Sought shelter from the storm, lay still;
In the mud beneath them.

With shattered trunks and broken limbs,
The weeping white trees;
Did proclaim them.

In white dripping silence came a gentle weeping,
Away to the south;
Where the wattle grows.

Brothers carry pride in the past, for sought and seeker held fast,
When the trees bled white;
Where the rubber grows.

 

© Robert Cavill

Author: Robert Cavill

 

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