Morgion The Mourner's Oak
here, they shall gather among its bows and hither. in the
spring or summer sun, bright are the voices they carry.
deep in the
earth, its roots doth run. long has it been, how long
shall it be. vast does its reach extend...season after
season been. his
feet no longer travel, his mind now steps his bounds. the
forest now his flesh, his bones to the earth in dust.
nothing, nothing
but time to keep him restless. slowly, slowly aware of
his suffering.