Where The Sycamore Grows

There is a field where a sycamore grows Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows. It is a peaceful place for thought; A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.

I love this place, enough to have said That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead. While I'm here, I feel sort of free; A type of magic that affects only me.

Because there, I could truly be alone. Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne. And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand That I could look all across the land

Now I grow old, as most rulers do; So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows; Here in the field where the sycamore grows.