secretly slide your fingers
between the many branches
of the weeping willow
hush, and listen to her lament.
she cries the tears of busy world
that do not know how to hear;
they have forgotten
more important things have
replaced the quiet world of the willow.
do you like my car,
did you succeed yet again in claiming
an expense you did not incur?
the simplicity of the swaying branches
of the weeping willow sharply
contrasted with the backdrop of the
inhuman concrete city in which we live
or is it exist? moving to the face on a
watch rather than feeling the time
of the sun. constantly hurried by
that watch face but in a hurry to do
what? or even to be on time or late
with yet another good lie which some
think will be another adequate excuse.
do you think some do not see the lies
of men in a hurry to go no where with
no one save for the one's that blindly
ask a/s/l for the thousandth time. so
lonely they would not know a world
without their solitude. why?
because what then will they use
we have come so far from the
morals our ancestors learned from
the sun, the weeping willow, the wind
to become a people so absorbed with
self, gossiping, taking advantage of
anyone we can that man has become
as unfeeling and deaf as concrete.
`T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova