The roses have wilted
The fire is low
The willow tree stands
In the cold and the snow

Lonely and barren
She waits for the Spring
To see Nature wake
And to hear the birds sing

Her branches, they rustle
With sounds like a sigh
Stretching out for the wind
As he brushes on by

Her cold, frozen heart
That she cradles unknown
Does nothing to mar
Her bright beauty alone

She waits on her Spring
For the warmth and the rose
So the willow tree stands
In the cold and the snow


Penned by my hand on the 7th of Sarapin, in the year 760 AF.