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The Oak Tree

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Ancient King,

the games we played,

gathered around your throne;

in awe of your nobility,

such playful tranquility,

you stood firm in the flow of time,

Roots much deeper than our childhood breath,

and branches reaching higher,

than that to which we can aspire,

but even as we diminish and fade,

you in constancy remain.

There oh Ancient King,

behind your impassioned gaze,

formed coils of age aloof to the passing of our days.

and there beneath your shade,

fists are filled with acorn pearls ,

dripping from your fertile boughs,

and dropped from your benevolent hands,

and transient visitors,

the creatures of the glade,

watch for us to depart,

then vigilant of danger,

gather there to feed.

It was here we found our riches,

it was here that we were fed.

The sun merged with the rain,

and trickled down branches and lips,

that kissed and touched our fingertips,

drowned in nature's bliss.

Time, it seemed,

slept beneath your canopy,

birds sung with the rythm of brushing leaves,

beguiling songs of love,

as transient as the breeze.

We are subject to the limits of time,

and as the copper leaves

caught the sun like lanterns,

heralding the winter's night,

and at your feet, the ground is laid,

with crystal glaze,

then you cast aside your cloak,

our love, play, and all that we had known,

are buried beneath your burnsihed snow.

We, it seems,

then pass like ghostly dreams,

to evaporate like dew,

We are forgotten.

ground to entropy,

the long, wet grass beneath the soulful moon.

As our spirits lay, oh Ancient King,

to the waving of your branches in the night

our fading thoughts reach up,

to hear the feathered angels sing.

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