And now, dear reader,
I will indulge
The origin of the tree
Where it began there was a Tree,
With one great trunk and branches three.
Ashen branch, Of burning leaf;
Samara brings knowledge to each.
Alder's arm, which flowers thin;
Her buds will lead the souls of kin.
Oaken growth; It ramifies
On both the wicked and the wise.
And thus the Tree kept all the earth,
Under it's span, within it's berth.
Then man had come and asked the tree,
Of its flowers, fruits, and leaves.
He ate of it and so was wise
And wicked, which was yet disguised.
Of the Ash, He built for him
A home of which to live within,
Of the Alder, He made a weave
To bear his soul with body cleaved,
But of the Oak he did not take,
But gave it out for it's own sake.
And so the story did conclude,
For that was just the start,
The prophet who had known of it,
Her secrets she'd impart.
The oak it stands to offer out,
To any who may ask,
Of only those who cherish it,
Without request of task.
But now the oak, reborn thus,
Refused a burnt demise.
The wicked man, his anger gone,
Began to realize:
"How fitting that this girl should be
Named thusly 'Charity',
Perhaps her family, too, it seems
Is prone to prophecy?
"As long as I come bearing hate,
For this oaken tree,
And expect it to yield my desire,
Here it will yet be.
"Of it's poison, I did take,
So many years ago,
Though I had come to plead my case,
I've struck a fatal blow.
"My pitiful and restless soul,
I seek to be redeemed.
All I ask is this slow drug,
Be yet released from me.
"But now it seems I'm cast to die,
My little Charity.
Who knew with all my powers
Could not my error leave.
"Ten years ago, I took from it,
Same kind that you now hold.
And ate of it, it's bitter seed,
And thus my life was sold."