In a forgotten forest glade,
  Beneath the crescent silver eye,
An ancient sentinel casts his shade,
  His emerald cloak, under the sky.

He watches from his solemn knoll
  While the eons slowly decay,
As the seasons turn and take their toll
  And leprous time gnaws him away.

His crooked oaken fingers reach
  Into the boundless twilit air,
Where pale moonlight begins to bleach
  The sky, as silence settles there.

Around his roots, the fauna dance,
  The fleeing, forest-dwelling kind,
Flitting through leaves in a spectral trance,
  Like memories lost to time and mind.

And man—his greatest joy to behold,
  As they recline beneath his limbs,
Escaping the heat out in the wold,
  Their laughter weaving summer hymns.

Yet he mourns over humble man,
  Destined to live out his brief season,
And he weeps for their ephemeral span,
  As their lives flicker without reason.

Burdened with pleasure and misery,
  To watch them grow old and perish—
Each one a fading reverie,
  A moment for him to cherish.

So as man drifts by on tapered years,
  Silent observance is his lot,
Till all their dreaming disappears
  And their memories are forgot.

And yet, this noble oak remains,
  A thoughtful, lonely beholder,
In the forest where his shadow reigns
  Beneath the dome of endless azure.
©️2025