When the willow weeps

If the willow weeps beneath the silvery moon

Its branches trailing in the midnight breeze

If each leaf a tear sheds, each bough a secret keeps

Then the ancient tree itself believes that sorrow shared with shadows finds release.

The river, too, will lend solace to its grief,

Its currents murmuring sweet or wicked tales.

If they speak of love, of loss, of fleeting dreams,

And if their ripples be of ominous patterns on the stream

Then beware the moonlight's kiss upon thy cheek, when a nightingale unfolds its tender song.

For its melody, though a fragile silver thread... creeps eerily through the darkness, where the heart belongs,

And blackens the weight of sorrows, just a breath.

So listen, friend, to the murmurs of the night,

To willow, river, and the nightingale’s refrain.

For in their quietness, they may hold the key to abject gladness...to healing hearts or soothing souls in pain

So when the willow weeps beneath a silvery moon

Listen closely with your heart, sing your prayer to the night

And the weeping willow will grant your dark desires

Or your fondest wish!