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Some say I have surrendered to the weather.
I have become distorted.
Bent low to the ground.
My fruit seems to have withered and died away.
I appear old and barren.
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But I am in the winter of my soul.
My distortion is my splendour.
I shall bend further still.
My fruit bore seeds,
and they have littered the earth.
I have become wise and spacious.