Bury me under the weeping willow

Bury me under the weeping willow

Bury me here,

under the willow,

where roots twist,

where shadows fall,

where the wind carries,

old sorrow quietly.

I do not want roses,

they wilt too soon.

I do not want lilies,

their perfume lies.

Give me the soil,

give me the hush,

give me the weight,

of quiet earth.

The willow knows grief.

Its branches bow low,

as if kneeling,

as if holding,

every secret,

every story,

that begged to stay.

I ask for no marble,

no carved angels.

Only a tree,

that bends and weeps,

its tears falling,

like green rain.

Do you hear it,

the hush of leaves,

a tired choir,

soft as breath,

gentle as prayer?

When the wind stirs,

it whispers my name.

When night deepens,

it covers me whole.

Grief gives no answers,

only roots,

only silence,

only sleep.

So bury me here,

under the willow.

Let me vanish,

leaf by leaf,

shadow by shadow,

until nothing remains,

but a tree,

still weeping,

long after I go.