The kite is stuck on the gnarled branches,

of the bald oak tree.
Fluttering and sighing in the wind.
The seasons have seen its shape and colors fade away.

One melancholic kid
threw forlorn glances at it from afar.
He tried to release it from its open imprisonment.
But the gnarled branches,
like stubborn ancestors from the past,
with angry frowns creasing their forehead,
did not support the lad’s innocent weight,
and gave in.

He fell onto the ground.
The rude shock of hurt and dust embracing him.
Gave one last look to the kite and limped away.

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