Willow

The arched back of a withering willow, 

Aging cold, perhaps too old,  

Offering its limbs to lay down its blood,  

To cast its shadow with a code of its own,  

While I am wingless as a dormant stone,  

Its essence sneezes with the dazzling heavens.  

Still at the brink of eternal sleep,  

Hallucinates the sheep.  

Forlorn is the valley of troubling men,  

Of dreary days, of nights I've been scouring!  

They aren't here, my love, they aren't real!  

I could hear a voice echoing as loud as thunder,  

"Who is it?" I wonder, "Where have you been?"  

My golden days of reign, my lusty nights devour!  

My only treasure as slim as disturbing rain!  

Embrace me, embrace me, I've forever been in pain;  

The eternal pain of withering flesh and bone,  

Who doesn't get aroused by a sweet moan?