Of the Oak on Main, and Her Foreign Heritage

With the turn of the third month came the rolling thunderclouds of April
With message of a place I had long forgotten, summoned me to where the rainfall lingered.
There, ahead of my path where heaven met earth, was an element missing from the hill,
Where I fell to my knees in discovery that the oak tree had been destroyed.
I knew not what to believe, having been so long void of feeling for this place,
Where once I rested in his warm embrace – but now the new breeze came bitterly upon me –
Where once I listened to the crickets’ hymn, watched heaven’s star sink to her silhouette frame,
Where once-entrancing blue eyes and light breathing gave way to whispered vows.
Entangled in the oak tree’s branches, we lost our minds, were blinded from reality.
This oak tree lived a time long before, in the far-off land of Kaleva,
Had sprouted from ashes and stretched out her branches,
Scraped them upon the sky and stopped the clouds in their courses,
And with her twining fingers grasped from the world the gleaming moon.
I have stumbled among her branches in search of the light she stole from me,
Ensnared by her deceiving arms I swayed hither and thither,
Awaiting the voice of Vainamoinen to sing me from a dream.
Eight months later I awoke from my reverie, disconcerted,
Crawled from behind the walls of a strange room, gathered my things,
And meandered down the fenced path that followed the river,
The banks serenely flowing with the rainfall of yesteryear.