Walking in the midnight's day,
I find myself lost in gaze.
Looking at the trees so bold,
Shadowed branches oh so old.
Withered and broken art thou so,
No longer do thy new leafs grow,
Neither do thy robins play,
Holding by thy winds they sway.
Lost are the days of strength and grace.
Untouched by wrinkles on thy face,
How they wish to bear again,
Before thy veins damped; now drained.
Fragile old but wisdom souls,
Seen days of pain and days of whole,
Watched nights turn into thy days,
Storms a blow but they remain.
Have sung in morning's merciful water,
Have danced in heats wrathful slaughter,
Witnessed branch-lings take control,
Provided life and helped to mold.
Thy roots entangled in thy ground,
Thy Knowledge giving is profound,
Standing tall against it all.
Growing weak, they still not fall.
Their olden branches, do turn gray,
Only a beacon: "come, listen," they say.