When I call you
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth that bears my hand?
As tendrils that from willows weep
Wrap me around
And draw me down.
I'm plagued upon the lyre's call,
I'm tortured into soft lament,
Confronted with a wealth of worth
That little means ,
Save to immortal bias
Of my own self.
How could it be I could believe
My tender pulse might
Spark a storm,
And leave its mark so permanently
When so many hearts,
So many beats,
So many souls
Have gone before?
Who are we to think we matter?
Who is there to truly care?
When some squalls rage
We'll never weather,
Some embraces craved
We'll never share.
So when I call you,
Won't you come?
Oh yielding earth,
To take my hand?
Whilst sweet tendrils that
From willows weep,
Shroud me before they
Drag me down.
For if you do
I'll never die,
But dance immortal
As my dreams,
On Summer's rays,
And Winter's storms,
On Autumn's cloak,
And Spring's fine wings.
And if you do,
I'll fly, not fall,
They'll be no tears
For you to cry,
They'll say I called
And that you came,
And when I leapt
I leapt with joy,
And kissed my earth,
For one last time.
Farewell beautiful one.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
The willow tree gives hope, a sense of belonging, safety and the ability to let go of the pain and suffering we have experienced.
