If every leaf on every tree could tell their story it would be glory to see

With every birch tree reigning high to see the world above it crying, why?

If roots could tell their ancient past it would be vast 

If no more trees could ever see or to never make the fruit we dire to seek 

We are blind to see the wonders with the numbers falling down

Willow tree, we often destroy three 

If any wisdom could be gained all but a sand grain, it often comes with bloodstains

Willow tree, they seek you to spare you

But they often lie, so why should I even cry ? 

From the dirt of life you stand in the northern land

Few still stand until it becomes a wasteland