Sunday, November 22, 2009

Hymn to the Oak

The old oak tree has no hands
to hold the birds that perch on his limbs

From the sky they fly
choose to nest and sing delightful hymns

About the oak that awoke to grow,
grace and welcomes the winds

Take they might leafs that fall,
a hight so tall,
no fault the breeze that trims

I sit and wait for spring to come
to hear her breathing hum,
that never dims

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