While her Father turns on the knelling bells
she plucks at daisies under newly blossomed cypress trees
until there is nothing left not even for the bees
only a river flowing by
carrying the weeps of Willow to a mournful tide
The line of beads around her neck slips slowly down
And as she walks, her feet imprint the question on her mind
till her lips, they part
"He loves me? He loves me not?"
and the bells begin to rise again
knelling the morning to a close