In a land stripped bare, beneath a sky so wide,
Stands the last tree, with nowhere to hide.
A sentinel of time, a keeper of grace,
Its branches still reach—an embrace, a trace.

The last standing tree, a monument of might,
Against the winds of change, it holds the light.
A symbol of hope in a world turned gray,
A sacred reminder we’ve cast away.

Its leaves may be few, its bark scarred and old,
Yet the story it tells is brave and bold.
Of forests that once clothed the earth in green,
Of rivers that danced, so pure and serene.

The last standing tree, alone in its fight,
Echoes the prayers of the forest’s plight.
A call to awaken, from root to crown,
To turn the tide, before we all drown.

So let us gather in the tree’s vast shade,
To honor the legacy creation made.
For the last standing tree, in its silent stand,
Is a testament to life, and the soul of the land.

Let’s plant new seeds, let’s water with care,
Let’s grow a new forest, just and fair.
For in the last standing tree, there’s a dream to weave—
Of a world reborn, for all to believe.