Would you please correct my mistakes in my poem Farewell?


The trees of my childhood,
I will never see you again.
Strangers pick your fruit now,
Cut your branches and dig up your roots.
I hear you crying, searching for me,
Longing for my hug.

When I began to toddle,
Father gave you life
“You’ll grow together,”
He said after the last tree was planted.

You were my playmates,
My best friends and my teachers.
You taught me your language and secrets
They do not teach in schools.

The last time I fed you,
We cried.
You watched me walking away, carrying a bag,
And you yelled, “Don’t go.”

Now I am talking to your brothers and sisters,
Thousands of kilometres away from you.
I describe for them how lush you are,
The bees humming in your tops,
The scents of your blossoms,
Your sweet juicy fruit.

They love my stories.
They are like fairytales.
In this cold climate,
Fruit trees more languish than thrive.
They tell me at least they will never have a war here,
But they are envious of you,
Of our friendship, our love,
Our longing which will never leave us,
Even when we die.