I wish to sit by the weeping willow
And stare at the fields.
Listen to birdsong
and wear a crown of wildflowers.
Why do we have to live so terribly,
In the city?
But I will meet you under the weeping willow
And you, under the hard oak.
Let us braid our hair,
and live in a cottage.
admiring the sombre hues
and the glowing Northern lights.
Because we are poets.
And we live up here.
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 6:47 AM UTC
I wish to sit by the weeping willow
And stare at the fields.
Listen to birdsong
and wear a crown of wildflowers.
Why do we have to live so terribly,
In the city?
But I will meet you under the weeping willow
And you, under the hard oak.
Let us braid our hair,
and live in a cottage.
admiring the sombre hues
and the glowing Northern lights.
Because we are poets.
And we live up here.
City life and bustling roads
Simply do not suit us
Yes, we are poets
unrecognised
and dead to society.
But we have brains and our inner world
where I bet you and I design it to look like the 'The Weeping Willows'
