against the willow tree that feeds off the dusky lake, i wait for Memory to enchant me.
i gaze at my past through lenses that are too weak; maybe they are also rose-tinted,
but i cannot tell.
and as i see my past through the stems of the willow, i wonder why they droop with such sadness.
the willow’s buds are wrapped in a snowy embrace, a gentle frost that never thaws or ices over. through blurry lenses i see a dim smokeless bonfire, burning the elegies that spawn from my mind; the erosion of my memories.
but i cannot even see the fire,
so i don’t know what to put out.
countless trials later, the willow still has its buds, yet now they are brown with rot. slate-gray blooms marred by the passage of time, darker than the bark of the tree;
the loss of youth and innocence.
i hear the whisper of leaves above me, nature’s fables becoming weaker.
as i rest, i feel centuries of relentless growth, a tree that bears experiences in its roots.
nature sparkles with joy, yet my memories become paler,
losing color like a dying flower;
decay that is far too peaceful.
the grass is soft and the wind shimmers, but i will not be uprooted.