The last of the oaks

Akham Bonbirdhwaja Singh
The old oak tree by the river,
it stood there for centuries,
a few of its roots touching the water,
a few dangling above the water,
Not as old as the big boulder nearby,
but growing as firm,
both by the riverside
like friends in arms,
saving charms of the river water
complementing each other,
The colourful lichens on its trunk,
the climbing ferns reaching the top
beautiful orchids on its forks,
its crown spreads over half  the river
leaves spring green always,
Imagined myself by its side,
sitting on the grass, leaning on it,
recalling my childhood, half a century back
when there were oaks in thousands,
I saw myself, stuffing acorns in pockets
carrying them home in plenty,
In winter, the leaves gone,
the bare branches whistle,
in the icy winds of the north
The lone old oak tree,
it has seen the civilisation coming,
it has seen other oaks gone,
alone now it stands but proud
And I still remember,
the taste of roasted acorns,
Now, the day is not far, it knows,
an axe man would come and fell it,
Alas! it will be gone, the boulder to follow,
the grassy bank will no longer remain,
the last glory of nature will also go
but the worst pity is
nobody would rue the day
but my pained heart.