The dying tree

Rubies

I was planted in the rain never heard drought 

They covered and protected me from the scourging sun

They all told me how good I was but said nothing about my ugliness in summer

They live in-between my branches and leaves

I heard them speak of my juicy  fruits and my comforting branches

My fruits which gave me a name in the jungle began to fall

Shortly the  wise is called a fool by the ones he taught

The birds now sing of my shame in the market 

I  heard the sound of thunder on a blissful morning 

My stem filled with strength to carry branches

Should I house the birds again knowing they can leaved just like they did the last time or should I send them away . 