Forking lance of purple fire flowing In the hazes of its victim. Misty carnage Of an old oak rent deep by lightning. Its fibres split and twisted into Labyrinths of gore and smolder. Still standing, in half evaporations, (rain for future children) Where it had for many the small life of man. The farmer’s shade from devilish sun And soft white bed of his daughter's dreams, Who now weeps upon her fathers stricken grave. Oak sepulchre wrought of fiery woe. Azure veil hiding a weeping frailty From this world–lest it knows what it does. Bleeding through the fog into the golden tempest ‘round. So too does that Oak tree bleed upon the scorchéd ground. Pray someone take her chin in comfort And remove her hands, that she may Witness the beauty of creation whereupon That deathly hallow ground a meekly flower blooms. Even if in her sight yet blurry.
— Cherubrah is a bardic vagabond