Standing alone in the wilderness

Twelve meters tall in his grandness

His stumpy trunk has a wide girth

Not much water needed

There's no thirst

Bent gnarly limbs and forked fingers

Looking at him you get the twingers

Like kites they swoop above the monster

They re not fighters

 Just a blighter

His roots bulge out of the ground

His bark is pasty brown

Some of his limbs have fallen off

Others will grow 

Don't scoff

Indigenous to this land,

through everything he stands

Monkeys bread he holds, 

Many secrets he enfolds

Even though the years have been cyclic,

He remains 


And majestic

A poem by Loman Pawlitschek