He stood alone on the hill,
through dusk to dawn
His roots dug deep,
deeper into thoughts
Thoughts of sunlight,
and the rays of hope
For his progenitors,
for the leaves, the branches
Thoughts of monsoon,
when summers pinched
And of winters,
When rains soaked his tears
He was always thinking,
for he was The Oak Tree
He was proud of the leaves,
that spawned his shadow
He endowed branches,
that unified his euphoria
The roots were his strength,
his indelible self
The only hope,
that touched his revere
He always loved them,
for he was The Oak Tree
He braved ages,
and the swindling time
He fought the storm,
the drought and the quivers
To strangers he bore resilience,
a resilience against the blistering swelter
He was always like this,
for he was The Oak Tree
His leaves changed color,
much like the weather
The branches tore his skin,
he wanted them to brave his age
Deserted he stood,
with his shadow
For his good days,
for leaves and birds and greenery
He always waited,
for he was The Oak Tree
There was a friend, a brother
a father, and a lover
for there was “The Oak Tree…”
