I led my flock through dying forest and by the drying river bed There stood a tree. It's canopy was thick with needles and perched above was sitting me. Halt, fool! Approach this tree with caution The needles kill though they're soft Its plump red berries - bitter potion. Its roots lay fast. They do not rot. when I was you I crossed the forest and my gray sheep enjoyed its reckless green and then a few came to the modest tree and reaped and seeped its ancient sin. And as the ewes chewed on the yew It lured me high to look for you. Why why old man? I said Have you gone mad? I'll get you stat. And as I grabbed the wretched branch and squeezed through sheep that had their lunch a sheep’s skull cracked beneath my feet and I was up. The forest died.