The willow trees are prophets.
They weep for what’s to come
The watchers of the ages
They’ve seen the earth succumb
The profit for imbalance
For greed and blood and fate
Half-hearted conservation
Too little and too late
The willows grow by water
A fresh supply of tears
With no surcease of sorrow
To mark the passing years
They see no change of fortune
that turns out for the good.
They’ve no power to change it,
and wouldn’t if they could.
The willows tell the story
of man upon the earth,
the smart and strong and stupid,
of death and of rebirth.
The tender souls of willows
So given o’er to care
Do not deserve this duty
Unbroken and unfair
I weep now for the willows
As they have wept for me.
We’ll perish here together,
and finally be free.
We’ll perish by the river,
and drift out to the sea.
BlackQuill 