The Real Fruit Poem

My father planted two Rambutans,
On the back side on our lovely home,
Thinking that would bear fruit in right time,
And gain a little by selling the same.

Days and times were passing,
It rose to fifty plus feet high,
Flowered many times at right time,
But, failed to bear fruits all the time.

But we aren't like to cut the tree-
For want of firewood,
Even if, we are short of it.

When it raises to heights,
Lovely leaves and branches raise in air,
Showing the gifted joy of nature,
We all filled with joy.
Air is lovely with the play of birds,
Air is lovely by the voices of squirrels,
Air is filled with the joy of birds,
Air is filled with the dancing music,
Squirrels and birds make master band,
That comes from the heart of joy,
That comes from the heart of open will,
I like to keep a chair near the tree,
While reading books in my collections,
How fine it is to hear the music,
How fine it to sit in the divine music,
All, make trees a nice playground.
How fine it to keep an eye on the play,
Squirrels and birds make master band,
Trumpet by lovely squirrels filled in air,
Lovely music of birds filled there,
All are filled with joy,
We aren't like to cut the tree,
For, want of firewood.
Even if, we are short of it.