I’ve been standing for over a thousand years. My roots are deeply embedded in the soil of Alkūnai forest, and my massive trunk has witnessed thousands of sunrises and sunsets. People say I’m the king of this forest—no other tree matches my grandeur. It would take ten strong men to barely encircle me with their arms. A true giant, isn’t it?

I bring together people from dozens of villages. To celebrate unity, people would gather here from Inturkė, Joniškis, Dubingiai, Juknėnai, Kaciūnai, Pikčiūnai, Babajai, Kertadaliai, Sutriai, Savičiai, Alkūnai, Graužiniai, and other distant places. I’m not just an ordinary tree. Oh, if only you knew all the stories that have happened to me! Will you let me tell you what I’ve seen over these long centuries?

In ancient times, people believed I was sacred. And why not? Secrets lived in my mighty branches and wide hollow. Sometimes, the Holy Virgin Mary was seen here. More than once, I saw light descend as if a window to heaven opened, illuminating the meadow around me. Sometimes an old man would appear, talking to me as he walked around. People would say that God himself was walking.

A picture of Mary hung on my bark for a long time, and people would gather to pray. Priests would come from Dubingiai to hold holy Mass at my trunk. Clear-voiced, laughing women would calm down beside me, picking raspberries and reciting rosary prayers. Voices would emanate from my hollow—no one knew exactly who was speaking, but people would say:
“Let’s go to the May festival, we’ll listen to the oak speak.”

Oh, the merriment I’ve seen! On summer evenings, when the weather was warm, all the local village youth would gather here. Hundreds of them! Accordion music would play from spring until autumn. These were the biggest gatherings: dances, songs, bonfires. People would come on foot, by bicycle, and later by motorcycles and cars.

The clearing at my base was perfect for dancing—flat and spacious. Bonfires would burn around, and the youth would spin in circles. How many love stories were born in my shadow! How many promises were made, how many kisses stolen!
“Four hours until the May festival starts,” some would say. And so it went for three months, every weekend.
How beautiful it was to watch the spinning couples, to listen to the laughter and song.

Children loved me too. In spring, when the school year ended, teachers would bring their students to me. It was a tradition—if you finished the school year, you had to visit the Oak of Alkūnai.
Once, a dozen children joined hands trying to encircle my trunk—they barely managed, just touching fingertips. Boys would play football in the clearing near me, young Lithuanians and scouts would gather for meetings. I was like an open-air school—teaching children to love nature, respect history, and cherish traditions.

During the occupation, my sanctity was trampled—someone started shooting at the picture of Mary hanging on my trunk. They tried to cut me down, but apparently didn’t have a big enough saw. Then they set my trunk on fire. I survived. Someone, in an effort to save me, bricked up my hollow with bricks—that’s what saved me from complete destruction.

Now I’m older, my trunk not as strong. I’m like an old man, holding the wisdom of millennia. I’m almost 30 meters tall, and my trunk’s circumference is one and a half meters. But it’s not about the numbers. Sometimes people visit me, led by old memories. To them, I’m a part of childhood, the joys of youth, the faith of ancestors.

I stand here, guarding history. I’m a witness to what was and what will be. My roots connect the past with the future.
Come to me, touch my old bark, and you’ll feel time flow—not in years, but in centuries.
I, the Oak of Alkūnai, am still here. And I will be for a long time.