In a town, on a hill, stands an old Linden Tree, As tall as a tower, she observes silently. A hundred years prior, the children had come, Pinching her blossom between finger and thumb. Happily, she shared her honeydew flowers, Their company given for hours and hours. How little bare feet would tickle her boughs, As they climbed and laughed, with sweat on their brows. But something has changed, a child has not been, She sees as they walk past, distracted by screens. Her flowers are still here, br

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