Once upon a time there was a baobab tree.
It was over a thousand years old.
It was growing in the same place it had always grown for all of it’s baobab tree life.
It was an old tree.
The depth of it’s roots was so deep in the ground, it drank from the reservoirs of the giving earth, but it still couldn’t find enough to drink for the whole of the dry, dry season.
The width of it’s trunk was so wide, it stood against the strong east winds of the harsh Sahara Desert but still couldn’t keep from bowing and breaking in the strongest of the gusts of the windy, windy winds.
The heighth of it’s branches was so high, it touched the heavy clouds of the dark, threatening sky but still couldn’t shelter the small, weary birds from the torrential downpours of the rainy, rainy season.
It was a poor tree.
For a small part of the year, it stood with the healthiest of green leaves and the fullest of baobab fruits upon itself.
But for the largest part of the year, it sat leafless and fruitless upon the land, as twisted and gnarled as a lonely, lame beggar, holding out his withered hands to everyone passing by.
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