I hear a sound of weeping with the wind
Blowing into your naked limbs so still,
As if a raging soul of a killed fiend
Is avenging the love of its dear kill.
I sense death inhabiting your thick trunk
As you hold up leafless week after week,
As if life has passed you heedlessly drunk
And left you bare and raw and cold and weak.
Not a shelter for dank birds you can be,
Nor a cloak for a passing by to rest,
Nor a sight that the eye delights to see,
Not even a place for an empty nest!
A warm breeze my cold cheeks pleasantly feel,
Oh! Might. Your branches are sprouting for real.
