The Willow Tree The willow tree has parched and died
Barbwire dresses its coffin now
Engraved with rock were a million promises
On its trunk, nowhere to be seen now
They are gone like the willow tree
That has withered in the sultry sun
In whose glory it had once basked
Stood tall with its arms open wide
And beckoned birds from faraway lands
To come and rest in its shade for a while
Metal teeth that jammed in the bark
Scars from thunderstorms that struck
The weeping willow trees in the meadow
Knew not the different strokes to the life
Of the willow tree that died in pride
For the love of the land on which it was born
For the love of the birds that chirped on its barks
For the love of the free spirit of the highest lark
For the love of those who made promises under it
And etched them with the sharpest stone on its bark
A carpet of chrome leaves lies at its foot,
A skeleton of twigs in midnight black
Against the canvas of the pale blue sky
Alone it stands on the deserted land
Blazing at its funeral while the sun smirks
At the hideous charred remains of the burning soul
Now back into the lap of its mater
As she mourns over dreams of her child gone awry
And the scurrying wind stops on its way
To offer a silent prayer on the death of the willow tree
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