you are an oak tree. once strong and powerful, you touched the skies with your rustling sun-kissed leaves and could see all the world. your roots ran deep. no wind could topple your indomitable branches, and the birds found haven in them. the people and creatures of the world would sit in your cool dappled shade while your leaves whispered incredible tales from the east wind, soothing lullabies from the south. when night came, you would reach for the waxing moon, pondering the glittering stories in the sky. you were strong.

now, you are weak and withering, struggling to find respite from the fiery sun and heavy oppressive heat. your naked limbs see nothing and your thirsting roots lie just above the bedrock. life has fled your blighted branches, which crumble at the breath of death. the east wind whistles by you, barely a taunting memory of your life. you turn to the south, but unconsoling silence meets your skeletal branches. night comes. the waning moon stares down mockingly, silencing the glittering stories that once guided your life.