The middle-aged man walks ...

walks ...

walks.

and he finally sits down on the cold metal bench beneath my leaves and branches.

Maybe he finds me a suitable cause

(for I am a w

e

e

p

i

n

g willow.)

and he sits and talks to himself

(Or rather the persons d w e l li n g within him.)

and I can't help falling in with the man who is beneath me.

love

And I can't help feeling a little for the man who is beneath me.

sad

He just sits ........ there (there, there.)

and S T A R E S off in the distance and mumbles ....mbemlus...

and if only I had a voice I could comfort the man who is

beneath me.

But I am only a tree.