The devil decided to crucify you

Small growth, emerging from insane grasses, I saw you growing, drawing up you towards the sky, tightening your first sheets with the wind, the rain. Snow covered you during this first winter when I believed that you would not survive. You had disappeared, without air, light. But, in the one spring long-lived greenness, you branned yourself of your last flakes. Later, your arms came to offer this parasol of the summer to me under which I spent so languorous hours. You gave me the freshness of your protection, the comfort of your roots for most pleasant of the armchairs which I had to know. I often touched the bark of this powerful trunk to the knotty body; so extremely, so solid. There was in him so much insurance. The birds nested in the hollow of your branches, chirruping against the wind balancing them, tormenting them. The evenings of autumn, I admired the bed of dead leaves extending to your feet. It was russet-red, brown, but, of these beautiful colors with which you had gotten dressed in an ultimate glare. It had infinite these colors which I will be able to never paint on the web. I tested so many times, without never managing to restore the heart of it. That remains still a deep disappointment. There was only you to know to color the life with as much subtlety. But, one evening or perhaps a night, I do not know any more, very stopped. I had fallen asleep. The storm, the lightning broke the sky, jealous of your beauty, all at the top of the hill with green grasses, so extremely, so dominating. The devil decided to crucify you. It just tightened its finger towards you. Why? I would never understand it. I know it. You are nothing any more but one skeleton, a perch for sinister corbels which trample you, breaking little by little the frail branches which remain you. The winters with cold corrosive, the summer with the extreme breaths, consume you slowly, corrosive the remainders of your life, crumbling them. Of my step heavy and trailing, I resemble to you now. It is increasingly difficult for me to join you at the end of the road. Tomorrow, in the ground, with your feet, I will hide a handful of nipples to seal our destiny. One of them, will emerge a large, beautiful and strong oak as you were it. I know it. We will never see it thus. It is not asked. We require just the grace to see it emerging from ground, to draw up, expect the first snows coming to cover it. Under the white ECRIN, it will take this glare if conqueror to resemble to you. The history will be able to be prolonged, to reappear. Without us. Be-That which is important?