Flaunting its dense plumage,

perching on the hill,

the old wise willow,

standing still.

Fluffing up its feathers,

with the slightest of breeze,

chirping at intervals,

rustling with ease.

Seeing days go by,

enlivening the place,

enveloped by life,

presenting its grace.

Later, a cold day,

brings spectators and a crowd,

feeling this willow,

nice and proud.

They examine the willow,

for safety they say,

from whom, unanswered,

and just go away.

However return,

and axes they bring,

now its just a weeping willow,

plucked off of its wings.