Unending is the Moonhart tree, changeless and eternal,
Her branches steadfast through the years, sacred and immortal.
Standing strong and tall against the southern wood,
A beacon to all nature, to purity and good.

Or so we thought, in those days before the Mother ailed,
echoing throughout the Wilde, the cause of pain still veiled.
And to the south, in putrid glens, the Ravenwood tree swayed,
its thorned boughs and darkened roots twisting in the shade.

A call for help begins a quest to seek the ailment's root,
and soon enough the questions sown begin to bear their fruit.
The Tree of Trees, the parent of the forests and the leaves,
shudders in dark agony, and in its turmoil heaves.

Old enmities before this sudden danger must subside.
Unforgotten, unforgiven, only set aside.
Who of us beneath the sun will heal the wilting trees?
Who now will be Ellindel, who will be Glinshari?

Healing is a sacrifice - so it was we learned:
All that is by nature blessed, to nature is returned.
Unto Great Tree the druids gave their heirlooms of great worth,
and from Great Tree again received the blessings of the earth.

So now within my peaceful glade I raise my voice and sing:
of winter's end, of old year's death, and of the dawning spring.
The old has gone, the new will come, time and time again,
and new life will immortalise my peaceful woodland glen.