O beautiful weeping willow,
do they not know of your pain
Once you re grow your bark,
to be only cut down again.
Always must your beautiful twisted branches,
Be broken and ripped again and again.
That dreadful rain always at your roots,
to simply wash away your sin.
You, so broad, so eager,
so distraught with your strife.
With always that beaming hellish sun,
cast shadows upon your hope-less life.
When you grow old my dear,
wither slowly and die.
So much beauty you bring to the world,
why must you always, only cry.
Must you always feel so down,
and droop so lifeless this time.
Is it because all you ever grew for,
is to truly be alive?
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