Die Eiche (The Oak)

Forlorn tree, twisted in corruption
Sitting outside my window pane,
writhing in pain of your creation,
next to the alley, running like a vein.

Your leaves, in the winter sun,
are brown, bare, and dead;
your trunk grey, with decay begun,
while the wind whispers in dread.

Shivering down the cold morning draught,
deep through your roots so old,
drinking in mankind's twisted thoughts,
creeping in like a sinister mold.

You stare vehemently towards the alley,
with the rats running their races,
to and fro do they flee,
with your shadow upon their faces.

When time comes to an end there you will still stand,
a testament to the past mistakes of a corrupting breed of man.