The wind whistles through the grass stalks,
As the moon lets her mournful tears fall
To the dark dry dirt that cries out for relief
From the malicious impish sun with its searing wicked pranks.
The cool cruel soil, though, has little sympathy
For the salty somber tears of the lady lying broken
Her arms and legs stretched out to mimic the trees'
Ever-lasting, ever-reaching, ever-protected, deep strong roots.
And she herself has little care for
The grass stalks burdened by her body,
Her mind is on her broken heart,
And finds little comfort in the moon's cold tears
That mingle with own salty sorrows