Willow trees that dream at dusk
Perched beside the rivers brink
May hang their heavy branches down
Resting where the shadows slink.
Weary from the wearing world
But born to bare it, though they sink
Into the mire round their roots
And still, with thirst they deeply drink
From waters formed pon mountains high
And droplets formed from weeping skies
That watch below the whole earth die
Swallowed softly in its lies.
Just like the mire round the roots,
From which a willow tree must rise,
Mans world spreads forth its hungry hive
To eat all it can hypnotize.
And so the weeping willow cries
And bends in sorrow to the brink
Limbs shaking with the silent sighs
Grief growing from the soils stink
And sees reflected in the stream
Its rippling form held in the light
That seems to whisper of a dream
We waking walk through till the night.
When bleary sun will rest its eye
And darkness fall upon us all
Then we can look up to the sky
And hear the silver clarion call
Of other worlds past what we know
Where bathing in the starry glow
Spreading branches upward grow.
Born from a joyous willow.