Standing, rooted in the ground.

Paralysed as their feet burn,

Disguised fears as the sun tears them up,

They are torn down.

Living in a hidden duality,

With secrets veined rings can’t tell

They are our ancient elders

Tortured; time goes slow.

Whilst day and night run blinking

Exposing snapshots of their dying earth.

I breathe confessional compassion

As the wind drifts mocks to and fro;

But tired souls have turned away

In withered despair where they wished to be.

Crippling low, their tears touch the place,

Where none remember we go.

This is almost in response to the strange way society tries to fool us that we can achieve immortality, and forgets the way we are all destined to die. The weeping willow bows down low in humility; its leaves touching the ground, the place we all will end up.

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