Tree

There is a green hill far away, outside a city older than Methuselah. There is a tree there, and that too is older than Methuselah. Indeed, both stood there before Methuselah was born, and stand there still long after he has gone.

The city was built on another tree, one of knowledge that broke a race; the remaining tree offers eternal life, and is despised. Five times a day, the horn of the deep sounds, and five times a day, it receives no answer there.

I stand outside the old walls of the crumbling city. I wish I had known it before it was built, and the mighty men raised high its walls. I wish I had been there to see the dawn of the age of men. And I am glad I was not.