Yonder sits the tree of valour,
Whose head was once covered with golden crown.
A mighty and deadly allergy to failure,
Whom skin was beautifully brown.
How many mighty men had fallen under its shade?
Yet, the cowards he had shaded from horrors.
The sight of his fearful and wondrous shape,
Sending cold shiver down the spines of warriors.
The orphans his sweet fruits had fed,
And the birds on his branches had roosted.
Great animals under his shadow found bed,
And firmly on his feet, he stayed rooted.
There sits the tree of valour,
Whom head is now a carpet of grey.
A fearful reminder of inevitable failure,
Waiting patiently to be captured as if a prey.
Day and night, he bends his long stem,
Waiting for the arrival of the ferry,
To transport him away from this system,
Beyond the seven rivers of no merry.
When then will the ferry arrive,
And sail him to the glories beyond?
So his last joy he could derive,
From the last journey of no return.