What is the willow,
Brushing wildly against,
My storm stained window.
What are it's branches,
Embracing me like arms,
As I run freely towards them.
What is its bark,
Scraping my skin as I climb,
Higher and higher above.
What are its roots,
Running deep in the ground,
Securing my trust.
What is its plague,
Blackening it's leaves,
Drooping it's boughs.
What is its saw,
Slashing its life,
Ending my memories.
What is the willow,
Fading in my mind.
My love no more
My joy no more.
