There's a tree growing

There's a tree growing down to my head, sinking and pulling up the memories that I am with its roots. There's nothing I could know about its arrival, I don't know wich flying seed came to stick and grow down to the nape of my neck. Yes, it doesn't exactly grow up. It seems it decided to show to the world's harshness its most delicate possession, the blind trace of its awakening. Birds come and dig to find a branch where to lie down the restlessness of their flight. But as soon as they find their place, they realize that their feathers start to harden and they understand that soon their heart will be also made of stone. And they don't make any move to stop it but wait. And the echo of their old flight keep vibrating the dust in my flesh.