The Willow

High up on the mountain In a dark forgotton wood There grows an ancient willow Where a monestary once stood It was only a small church A tucked away little cell The monks spent their quiet lives Contemplating Heaven and Hell The youngest of the monks Was a lad of ten and seven The fourth son on an Earl His father gave him to Heaven The youth was broken hearted He yearned to be a knight He drempt of swords and armor That shone in the morning light And the willow grows And the willow knows Outside in the forest Amongst the trees so green There lived a young gypsy A girl of just sixteen She believed in the Old Ways And worshipped under the moon Giving praise to Mother Earth While singing a forbidden tune On one such holy night As her sacred fire burned low She gazed upon the ground And spied another's shadow She quickly spun around And beheld to her surprize A beautiful young monk With tears of love in his eyes And the willow grows And the willow knows The young monk had run away In the dark hours of the night He had stumbled upon the gypsy And fell in love at first sight The gypsy returned his stare And felt love fill her heart That night they exchanged vows And swore never to part They lay there in the forest They lay as man and wife And with the coming of the dawn They rose to greet their new life But Fate is sometimes cruel And Gods are sometimes blind As the lovers were dressing The monks rushed them from behind And the willow grows And the willow knows The couple were overpowered And drug off through the wood They were taken to the monestary And told it was for their own good The young monk was whipped For falling under the witch's spell As for the young gypsy She was condemed to hell They said that she must burn To be purified by flame The young monk was forced to watch And threatened with the same They tied her to the stake And set the logs up in a ring But as the flames began to crackle The gypsy began to sing And the willow grows And the willow knows The young monk screamed As his love sang out his name He broke free from his captors And leapt upon the flame The other monks stood in shock As the flames reached a fever pitch And still the lovers held each other The young monk and the witch Now six hundred years have passed And its all just a memory On the spot where the fire burned Now grows the willow tree The monestary is now forgotten It's bells no longer ring But when the wind blows through the willow You can still hear the gypsy sing And the willow grows And the willow knows Written January 18th, 2002 © on Jan 17 2002 09:12 PM PST   0 • 10