Disquiet stills amongst the Ghosts beneath the Tree;
        Their dead eyes staring up into the sky, devoid of light
Slaves in their violent veracity, alone in their silence 
        They whisper,
“Behold a reverie born from the ashes of a maiden’s vesper:
        Blinded by autumns grace he falls, and because of this, comes closer.”
Surrounded by the essence of Her and beseeched by pain
        The frail tide rises giving life to the Willow and from
Beneath his thoughts will this unfold, an unequivocal sorrow:
        “Look upon the eyes of the one resting there!
                  Behold the transgressions of his heart!
                              Behold the beauty of that which he desires!
            And from this tide the Willow grows.”
{Sadness as rain, breathing out the mist of a cold winter morning
            Exhaling as fog from a Ghostly visage of bitter frost and 
                                    Mourning eyes.}
         They whisper:

“His skin grays and peels away, spirit broken for what he became
She reaches her hand towards the place he was slain
         Praying that within him some life still remains.”

And their sonorous incantation reaches the heavens.
The shadow in the ever-lightening sky of dawn
         The sun crests, the moon dies; the shadow withers and
            The light shines.
Behold the wisdom cast from so many days he there hung.