THE WILLOW KNOWS

Drooping limbs a silent drape
point to the sobbing sounds
no human ears can hear,
moaned from hearts in deepest ache,
whose bodies are now entombed
in everlasting earthen sleep.

Souls hovering over their immortal fate,
murmur their constant regrets,
a monologue dredge from pains of recollection
over squandered lives
that were spent valuing gold more than hearts,
dwelling now in constant agony
their plots never visited,
their guilt absorbed into the morning fog,
adding to its icy feel.

Each new funeral procession
watched by departed
who see the presence of mourners
as another testimony to their wasted hours.

How their try in such futile ways
to utter their sadness to the living
it is never detected by those they see,
being a song of everlasting lament
only the willow knows.