The willow tree on a bank it sits
Looking over a river bent.
He moans and groans with each passing breeze,
His age it seems to far from me.
Arms that reach to seasons past,
Birds that flock to him for rest.
A locust finds a home there too,
And sing his song in hopes to swoon.
He tells of days hard spent at best,
And ponders time the final rest. |
