Weeping willow, why do your catkins caress the fields of sunflowers

Weeping willow, why do your catkins caress the fields of sunflowers when they themselves are hallucinogenic dreams dancing in the secret wind? Why do your cold and rigid branches yearn for warmth when a smoldering fire burns within you, between your wooden ribs, embracing you with its hidden and fiery flames? Weeping willow, why do you let your branches be broken by the cruel gusts of the storm, don't you know that the core of your heart is made of a strong alloy, like a shining armor? Why do you let the rain-soaked leaves suffocate you under the angry and dark skies, don't you know they only embrace you tenderly, not to choke you, but to offer you shelter? Weeping willow, I look at you in the broken mirror, the crack suggesting the forgetting of truth, that the glass is not half empty, but full of promises and unfulfilled dreams. Yellow mushroom, don't you know it's madness to chase after ephemeral and illusory butterflies, don't you know that your efforts to catch the sunlight are as futile as a broken dream? Yellow mushroom, you thought you'd become a star on which people would wish, or perhaps a poem people would read with open and dreaming hearts. Don't you know you are the clear night sky, a crooked line in a stanza singing eternities? Yellow mushroom, you didn't become a star, nor an astrologer, nor a dreamer of distant worlds, you became a fool counting stars, like a pauper counting his copper coins, you didn't become a poem, nor the poet who knows how to capture words in their free flight, you became a fool with a pen, trying to capture a world too vast for coarse paper. Yellow mushroom, I look at you in the old photograph with its dusty and time-forgotten frame, the knot in my heart suggests I am envious of your carefree and boundless freedom, while I am not, but the rot seeping through the soil makes the most vigorous willows weep, but I, I do not weep, for the rot is enough to make the most robust mushrooms wither, but the yellow mushrooms, the yellow mushrooms, live on in drawings put away in boxes, hidden behind closed doors, where dreams and memories meet in eternal silence.