Our life is like an old oak, we have roots, dug in the soil Roots in the middle of soft ground and other around rocks But sometimes they're cutted down or rot, 'cause they can't survive in those environment We have trunk, strong, hard, but that bleeds, blaze, and leave on us marks, forcing us to remember We have branches, long, that reach remote distances Some are beautiful and loaded, other twisted and sickned Some strong and trusty, other not much We have fruit, sweety, balmy Some are bitter and poisonous, some will rot, some will fall, some will mark it deeply those who taste them We have leaves that get lost if the wind is too strong, or if some part of the tree has been hurt That feel and fall for having no more life, choking and drying little by little... The fruit... The branches... The trunk... The roots... Leaving the tree dryed and dead Sometimes we can see our leaves falling, our fruit rotting, our branches wriggling, our trunk marked and our root torn to pieces But we still have seeds, and if our tree hasn't been planted, it's fall will fertilize the soil, where another tree can live...