Hearken the Wood

Creeping, crawling,
Vines of old.
Tell me everything
People never told.

Sprouting, Blooming,
Flowers show,
All the things
I've wished too know.

Oaken, towering,
Trees of years,
Are always there
To heed the tears.

So I hearken the ballad,
Of the weeping wood,
While the flowers grow pallid,
I stand tall; For I've understood.