(no subject)

[smokingboot]

I saw a tree on fire last night
when all around the fields were shorn
and every crop was gathered in
from ricks of hay to sheaves of corn.

And when the tree was blazing bright,
The flame it spoke within my head
like sparks that sing throughout the night
that you were dead, that you were dead.

The fire reached up to touch the moon
And yet the tree stood on the hill
And though it burned, the leaves yet grew,
And though they grew, the tree burned still.

Though I know well how you are gone,
And no ghost waits to trouble me,
There is no cost, no love that's lost
While grows the green and burning tree.