The pain that stung, that moved so long ago, In time grows old, like you, and hardens up
Like an ancient oak stump, bole and branches Long since lost to storm winds, lightning strikes,
Whining saws, the deep-ringed damp dried out After years, the north face immersed in moss,
The core a hall where beetles adore the wood Next to ferocious voltage of horntail wasps,
The runnelled sides girdled by polypore Mushrooms shelved and colored like seashells,
As the ivy, the never-sleeping weed, Winds itself about and rises till
It conceals the busy remains and leaves them Unseen in its soft green starships and gowns.