Weeping Willow
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She stands beaten and bent,
near exhausted and spent.
And like Medusa's locks,
Her coiffure awes and shocks.
Her branches lash and sweep,
strumming songs in Her sleep.
And along with the birds,
the wind whistles the words.
Beneath a fickle sun,
Her crying's never done.
And raindrops rain like tears,
silencing children's cheers.
Bearing branches of green,
She's a sight to be seen.
For flaying with each breeze,
She's unlike other trees.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
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