Balancing willows on the tip of the earth
The ground below eagerly catching their tears
Their dilapidated easel is poorly shaken
But they have not given into such inconceivable fears
A thinking man's dream of peace forsaken
Only to build in one hundred drawn-out years
The simplicity of man has thus been taken
As the willow weeps for that so cavalier
Where the grease of industrialization so nonchalantly flows
The willow in his beautiful stability knows
That when man's irreverent complexity grows
His drooping leaves to wilt like a rose