Past the busy crowded town,
Past the river trickling down.
Upon a hill stands an old tree.
The fields around it mirror the sea.
The wheat heads swaying, birds in the air,
The old tree stands with never a care.
The weight of years lies on its limbs,
Its branches bent to nature’s whims.
Its bark is wrinkled and peeling away,
Criss-crosses passing there many a day.
The acorns dropping and growing anew,
Time passing, fields filled with dew.
Its branches multiplying as they grow out,
Inside its heart its spirit is stout.
The many hundreds of leaves that grow,
So like the people that live and know.
The time forever passing by,
The rain– the sins that made you cry.
The light– the love that made you see.
The people– the leaves of that old oak tree.