Death of a King

The leaves, once so tender and green, grow weary of their days and beg the very tree that gave them life to release its fragile tendrils and set their dying bodies free to the mercy of the wind. And so the tree obeys, losing something of itself with each fragile body that falls from its mighty boughs. Yet the tree carries on, sprouting a new crown of life in the spring, rejoicing in the leaves presence during the summer, only to say farewell again the following autumn.
         Such a cruel fate the tree must endure.
Is this part of the reason why we feel such respect and a sense of awe when we stumble upon an ancient being in the wilderness, proudly displaying his green crown to the summer sun? Such a noble figure the mighty oak is, yet in the same sense such a sorrowful being. 
         I pity the trees.
For how many years will the ancient beings continue this cycle of agony? When will the tree itself grow tired of life? How will it know when its own time has come to lay down on the earth amongst the ruins of its former glory, to wither away in the soil like the leaves of its past?
         It will know.
It will know as clearly as its own leaves know when it is time to say farewell. It will know just as the birds know to fly away from the approaching cold to distant lands. And when this day comes the mighty king will flee his mighty body, leaving behind a crownless, hollowed, and lifeless remain to eventually fall and wither; bidding his final farewell.
         The death of a king.