The Tree

Over the hill grew a mighty tree,
Seeded by the Gods themselves.
Nourished by the Mother, growing free,
taken care of by the little elves.

Its trunk was strong,
Green were its leaves, deep were its roots.
A myriad of animals doth throng,
To taste its heavenly fruits.

It sheltered creatures of a variety wide,
Even the outcasts that did flee.
Like the mischievous snake that there did hide,
Also, did the humble bee.

On an ominous day, came on metal horses, 
And claimed the forest to be theirs.
They hath used chemical forces,
And stole the golden fruits from its rightful heirs.

Greed! they took its fruits to sell,
Killed her residents there,
Wounded thy mighty Belle!
And winter doth come now, rendered Her bare.

Alas! the tree was  barren,
It bore no fruits.
Its leaves had fallen,
And withered were its roots.

It stood then like a ghost of the night,
its bark grew hollow....
suffering from blight.
nothing could bring it back, even Apollo....

The love that nourished her was lost,
Greed had taken its place...
But at what cost?
It doth rot away then, leaving no trace...

The Gods showed their spite now,
For mercy they did beg.
Many a seeds they then sow,
But the Gods doth segue.

Drought and disease took many a soul,
The city bell no longer did chime.
Men of greatness died without extol,
Tis' the dying Bard's rhyme.