A tree in Johannesburg
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.
A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.
Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.
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