Alas, the Fern unfurls their fronds, within the light of Brother Sun.
Kissing his cheeks of cold crisp air, pressing his lips on her leafy arms fair.
Stretching and growing to Brother Sun, wrapping her roots to Mother Earth below.
Grasping her shoulders like the tree trunks bare, barren and old like the banks of the lake, holding a seed to whisper, 'Wake!'
Shooting her efforts up in the air, growing a tree and in her hair:
A nest of magpies tangled like weeds, until the summer's wind will breeze.
And so, wailing and weeping, hear the cries of the Moon.
Showing and waving the cloak of the Stars, humming her dream of sad tunes.
Creating the shadows amongst the reeds,
Creating the tree that keeps her woe.
The Fern would twirl and sing in praise, and hum her merry song to foe:
'The Spangled Heavens silver the tree,
An old bent man she seems to me.
And she casts the shadow, and that's where moonbeams lurk.
She is the Weeping Willow.'