The Mourner's Oak

Morgion

Here, they shall gather among it's bows and hither. 
In the spring or summer sun, bright are the voices they carry. Deep in the
Earth, it's roots doth run. Long has it been, how long shall it be. Vast does it's 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.