I am abandoned by the wind,
left to deteriorate in the fall.
I face my life's end,
growing funereal.

Generations of a blackbird
lived on my limbs when I was young;
their song's no longer heard,
muffled in this dying tongue.

Around me once-bursting life eroded.
Prosperity surrendered to the drought.
Peace and cradling boughs corroded,
engrossed in lonely thought.

If I could drink the wind or see a sapling sway
just one last time, I may feel a little more at ease;
but now time retires and nature runs away.
I whisper, quite weakly, to give the young some peace,

*"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more."