In the winter stands a tree
Its branches withered swords
And here it weeps eternally
For the coldness in its cords.
And if you ask its birds to sing,
They will laugh and cry and call you names
But not one note will ring.

In the springtime sprout its leaves
With flowers purple orange and green
But where melodious harmony should conceive
Still the birds they do not preen.
And if you ask the birds to fly
They will flap and fall and curse your name
And leave you with another sigh.

In heat and love and summer rain
Trails the vestige of a tortured king,
And at his fingers and in his veins
Pumps a sap so aptly named.
And if you ask the birds to dance
They'll stumble jest and fall at best
But not a one will prance.

In the dying, brittle autumn breeze
Sway the heavy dreadful barren things
Of a trunk infused with sad disease
That brings to ground those with wings.
And if you ask the birds to leave
They'll squawk and say, “but here, we're kings!”
And forever you will see the reeve.

But if you ask the birds about the tree
They'll look around so nervously
And out of key and harmony
They'll tell you how they killed her gracefully

Now ask the willow why she weeps,
Why she cries herself to dreary sleep;
She'll just wave her withered fingers low
To some mesmeric ancient flow.

But you need no explanation
For the dead decayed and dying--
Silence is the song of passion's passing beauty.