The dead willow tree
On a hill far, far, away there lives a dead willow tree.
And if you visit there’ll be a girl, with long inky hair as deep as the darkest sky.
She wears long rags that are elegant and dances in the sowllow wind.
She comes every day with a beautiful dismay of light, then leaves when the sky turns to the deepest shade of moonlight.
But if you ask for her name she’ll point at a grave, then fade far, far, away as the wind shallowly presses on to a place too far away.
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