what must the ol' sycamore tree
think of us people come past
with our ****** problems
that lack any roots

he's seen many a leaf turn over
things come and things go
such as us, and who begins after

to the young brook he'd say
look at them bicker and banter
rising and falling like the tides

do not they understand
what qualms they hold now
mean nothing by the morrow

the young brook would reply
o' sycamore, wisest of the branches
do you not remember what it's like
to be young and restless

do you not wish to return
to those days you stumbled
where all experiences meant
something new and dangerous

and so the tree would remain
and the brook would part her way
just another person
and just another day