By God, I am Willow.
Weeping Willow,
subjected to vulnerability,
implanted tenaciously,
in a dark desert snow.
Remain obstinate,
she warns herself as
she fights his chilled
inclemency.
Persistent as he is,
he diverts her attention
to her elongated green blades, that he
claims cry whip! As the wind blows,
And provokes her colors,
sets them on the cliff;
they were on the verge
of falling.
He sends his wind:
“Weeping Willow.”
///
Though, She opens Her eyes,
eyes guided by the light
Her Lord asks of Her now,
and will ask of on The Day.
She restored Her colors from him;
the perpetrator who couldn’t foresee
Her reeking of such purity.
She is Willow, he says,
With sincerity disallowing Her left to
identify the altruism of Her right,
With and obedience keen to galvanize;
shown through the amalgamation of her inner and outer purification,
and With magnanimity in Her being.
My God, She is Willow.
I am Willow, She says,
With leaves that obey the Lord
and protect the encompassed,
With waters that treat purity
to those who expect less,
and With roots bound down
by the fight for sincerity.
By God, I am Willow.
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