Dry well

Image source: http://www.texasescapes.com

I’m a well. I’ve a tree growing from my core. It’s green and tall. It reaches the height more than I ever could, even more than what I was when full till mouth. Oh, those were the days! I was accompanied with people. They gave me their full love, installed machines to help me push water to them. More than I ever asked for; cleaned me, guarded me, beautified me.

Then the time came for retirement. I’d completed my service. Now I’m dry.  And deserted, it’s like I never existed, like I’m invisible to those who loved me. I don’t complain for that, maybe I’ve had all the love that I could have.  Does that mean hate quota has started? Those who throw garbage in me, how can they forget the clean water they withdrew? Those who spit in me, forgot the pure and cold water they drank off me? No, they cannot; these people are different. They never loved me, the one who did, must have departed. God, I don’t want to die suffocating from plastic and garbage. Could I at least ask for a peace in death? Please, spare a few stones and mud for my grave. Let me die with pride.