A Child's Plea

I seek blessings in my final days
from a mother who holds on to my roots till this day,
bending over the inspector she has sent,
his gushing waters, ready to investigate my decay.

Suspects? My cooks, so I drop them in his lap
his cold blooded pile of pebbles forming a perfect trap,
several weeks of questioning, the greens turn into exhausted brown
but his assistants won’t let them go, nor let them drown.

But the boundaries show his softer side
his clods of sediments have this to say,
“How can such precious green foliage be the culprit?
We accompany them from now on, making sure they happily flow away.”

Not a demand but a polite request,
Leave it upon you as the creator knows best,
Oh Mother! The wise clod knows it too in a way,
That my each cook will go back to you, not here to stay.

All the investigations by the inspector’s juniors, does it amuse?
Does it really matter whether they come home as convicts or falsely accused?