Intricately carved with the creator’s hand,
With thunder like runes on top.
They die and live with the changing land,
They all be same like a fish called carp.
When the soft breeze caresses them,
They dance with joy of life.
Forced to kiss their tree’s hem,
When the wind is as sharp as knife.
Even dead, they look so grand,
Like golden coins across the land.
When the last leaf falls on ground,
Never making noise nor any sound.
They promise the coming of many more,
Upon the maimed and standing tree.
Never before was sung their lore,
