None do ever see
The tears of a willow tree
Who hides her pain
Behind her maine
Of vines, submissively.
They say young willows often grow
Where musical notes of rivers flow
And such assumptions
Provoke presumptions
That the song comes before the show.
Alas, the truth is veiled
Precision ultimately failed;
That water boasts
Tis root of growth
Is purely a mythical tale.
For rivers comprize the tears
Built up after many years
Of the friend
Found at its bend:
The weeping tree no one hears.
