Someplace under the willow, amongst the oaks,
Someplace amid the hills, in the fields of flower,
Someplace in the moss stridden valley, down by the stream,
I lay with the stones and the soft river rocks,
Devoid of company besides the insects and beasts,
Alone I stay yet I hear the soft footsteps, perhaps a misdemeanor of my hearing,
And now behind the pines, fleets of pale skin or streaks of black tresses,
The scent of honeysuckle pervades the air, as I wonder through my kingdom,
North I travel passing the mushrooms and moss, down the brook,
Eventually I find the treasure of which I have sought,
On the bank there lies the indication of my prize,
There is the mystery I have seen yet haven’t,
There lies my fate, there in solemn ecstasy, there you sit,
Soon it is together we walk, together we converse and return,
Someplace under the willow, amongst the oaks,
Someplace amid the hills, in the fields of flower,
Someplace in the moss stridden valley, down by the stream,
Now together we lie upon soft cots of felt,
Together we hunt the beasts and spear the fish for sustentation,
Together we smell of flowers and stone,
But still the sounds reverberate throughout the air,
And once more we venture into the wasteland, the place of ultimate death,
Yet we return, empty-handed, except for one thing,
All that is brought back is malady,
Now together we lie under the stone, in the soil 
Someplace under the willow, amongst the oaks,
Someplace amid the hills, in the fields of flower,
Someplace in the moss stridden valley, down by the stream