Underneath the oak, where shadows tit,
The wood murmurs, delicate and lit.
A grain of time, both old and new,
In each bunch, a story or two.
The branches influence, the leaves they tit,
A dance of murmurs, tranquil, lit.
Through seasons’ change, it holds the past,
Wooden hearts that will at any point endure.
In quiet strength, the forest endure,
An immortal bond, in wood we trust.
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