The Weeping Willow By Anonymous In my death, I am sadness risen. I am rooted and I am stiff, unable to turn and unable to run. So I stand. So I watch. So I wait. It has been this way for one million years. One million years ago, I might have cared. I might have strained my chains and attempted to escape, but this fate that is mine I have learned to accept. My tears revolve me like the Earth with the sun. They need me; they yearn for me. But they never touch me. With the wind they sway and they dance—but me: I stand, and I watch, and I wait. Once upon a time this might have made me sad, but that was one million years ago and now I am numb. I am waiting. For what, I no longer know. I might have one million years ago, but since then I have forgotten. Perhaps it is light, for it is raining now, and the clouds have obscured the sun. Perhaps it is the stars, for it is day now, and too bright for their hopeful blinks. Perhaps it is singing, for it is twilight now, and the birds have gone to bed. Here where I wait. It is quiet and still by the sleepy lake over which I guard. This lake has been my companion for one million years. Together we talk. Talk, but that is all—for lakes do not laugh and trees do not cry. I love my lake. I love its tiny ripples and its little waves. I love the spirals that the raindrops make on its shiny surface, so fleeting and frequent that they seem infinite. I love the little hum that it makes at night, when it is dark and I cannot see it, but the little splashes on the shore let me know that it has not left. A girl drowned herself in my lake. All but one million years ago. She was a widow, you see. Not of love and such, but married to and mourned by life. She had no past, no present, no future. And so she stared, glassy eyed, at the horizon in her sight. She stood and she waited and she watched for many hours, until the sun sank below earth and the sky turned a dim shade of purply blue. Still, she felt nothing.
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