Crimson gold pours on barren land. Aged roots, rotten leaves. A wayfarer came from afar, Searching in vain for a path less travelled. A weeping willow stood alone As a cold sun gripped its claws into the morning. As summer had to yield to cold nights, The wayfarer still searched in vain, He laid down to its bare roots, Gray skies shed warm tears Over all these years. A weeping willow stood alone In the evening hours as the autumn rain fell.