They tell us all to climb the tree,
To reach what hangs for all to see.
But though we stretch and though we try,
The fruit remains too far, too high.

A fox will feast, a lion dine,
While sparrows peck at crumbs and pine.
The branches bend for weight and pride,
But never lean to those outside.

We’re told, “Grow strong, and you may rise—
The climb is fair, the prize the prize.”
Yet roots run deep in crafted ground,
And ladders break when we are found.

The ones who feed atop the bough
Were once like us — or so they vow.
But once they reached the ripened prize,
They pulled the ladder, blocked the rise.

We march, we plead, we raise our voice,
They nod, as if we had a choice.
Their laws are leaves that drift and fall,
But never shake the trunk at all.

So we remain, our necks pulled sore,
Our fingers bruised from grasping more.
The sweetest fruits — they never drop —
They rot above. And still — we hop.