The old, oak tree stands firm,
So full of historical memories
That only can be expressed fully
By the documented words in diaries.
Beside a tarnished statue it stands,
Its stiff old branches pointed upward
Toward the puffy, white clouds in the sky,
And some of its limbs hung downward
Above the statue's bowing head
As though they would protect
It from the weather elements,
And the caretaker's gross neglect.
Many years of tribulation have gone by,
But the tarnished statue and the old, oak tree
Remember together the vast suffering
Of the bloody conflict that used to be.