Pan and the White Oak

Sing me a sad song,
About the old white oak.

Tell me of its branches
And the trunk that once broke.

The summer fires
Burning it with smoke.

And the frigged frost
covering it in a cloak.

Tell me the story
About the old wise man.

Of his description
And betrayal of his clan.

How he sat under the twisted branches
Listening to the word of Pan.

Learning and knowing the knowledge
Waiting to teach his entire life span

Write down the words from the tree,
How it spoke after the diseased

"So many die!
Oh but how few live."

"Oh listen to my child,
And to ye I shall give."

"The remedy to all the death
Tis is brive."

Morn With me the story
Of the men who overheard.

How they're steps fumbled,
And speech slurred.

They cared not
To walk quietly like a bird.

Slamming into the White oaks meadow.
Assured on the old trees word.

"We seek the old oaks sap."
"Its branches and crooked trunk."

Turning to the old man
"Move ye old man less be dead like an skunk."

Oh! Cry now!
How He did not move.

He stood there fast
Not to move for he disprove.

The song of Pan Is of man and God.
Do not trust him for its never been prove.

This tree and I have stood here longer
Then you would remember so I shall not move.

Learn now, about the Fallen and oak.
And how a word can change a simple folk.

Words of power lust and greed
Living beyond the thought of time with the yoke of a tree

The words of a simple man
Did not those men heed.

And now they are dead of where they stand
The white oak no more but the birth of the scarlet oak bathed from Pan.