An ancient tree stands gnarled and withered,
Below it is its age-old roots;
A story great it has delivered
Of newfound power, stomping boots.
If it could speak, this tree would tell
A tale of old, the aeon's race;
In depths of earth, as deep as hell
Sits a long-forgotten grandiose place.
But close behind this tree that speaks
There lurks a psychometric's dream;
A second gnarled and hunchbacked tree
That still remembers human's scheme.
The tales of old are not yet lost,
For here we see this ancient tome
Who, whether it knows it or not,
Remembers what's beneath the loam.