On Visiting the Oak Again

Nestled dreary in oaken boughs a thrush lay dreaming berries wild,
Proud of life lived to the brim,
That sweet slumber of the innocent mind.
There sat we ‘neath the humble home
In youth with all its fears and hopes, Passion’s inferno, gentle furore;
And carelessness of tipsy souls
Inebriant on spirits poured
From heart that wings of love unfolds.
We gazed into the future with a certainty none should trust;
For the storm within our hearts now rose,
Across elysian lawns as gust
And turned in ravish glee to sea.
With all the wind upon our sails,
We stepped into the air and flew;
As the thrush in slumber unbroken, dreamt of skies blue.
Many a years have slipped past now;
And the oak is on the ground.
And standing there yet once again, everything has changed.
Your absence bears no surprise to my wisdom marred soul,
Perhaps the path that led you away is for the best of us,
If not then best it is you shall not see this sadness in my eyes.
Had I wished perhaps to stay forever by this tree
With yourself and built a hut by the meadow beside the hill,
The spring of life would never have ceased to bloom
In hues of red and green. Now the gloom
Invades below and above rests uncertain end,
And pray as much as I ever will,
That moment never will be anew.
Perhaps the pebbles we tossed into the abyss had something to say,
Or the azure butterflies a message to deliver,
Or a prophecy the eagles hearkened across the skies which we failed to decipher,
Would that knowledge have changed our lives?
Would the different paths we could have taken led us to a future where the two of us could still be together?
A chapel bell to stir my soul beckons me now,
A home I long to see but choose to forget.
I whisper a prayer to rescue me and a resounding silence answers:
A shattered heart is still a heart, broken but beating.
The joys of spring must wither away when the sun screams from the skies,
And the oak then shed all green to greet the winter snow.
And then all anew we must begin
From leaves to flowers and fruits again.
What may this serve as purpose doubts my mind,
But perhaps now my heart rests
With the knowledge I never may know but truth that it will run it’s course.
O happy memories of love ! You prick my heart as the rose bleeds
The lover in haste to please his beloved.
Sorrow flows from this wounded core and the last leaf of my soul falls too.
Perhaps with spring might I rise again,
And my broken self repair.
But cuckoo songs to soothe my soul and daisies flutter my heart, perhaps
The time has passed.
I stand alone.
Alone.
For I know, I am not the spring.
I am the oak that once was green.
I am the oak that thunder struck.
I am the oak that is no more.

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