Willowing Trees

The trees are stained with red
The leaves are bright with brown
All the trees are dead 
They whither without a sound 

The roots have all been plucked
The fruits have all been sliced
The garden begins to rot 
The farmers may soon die 

All the trees are dead 
No magic can bring them back 
The sadness of earth has spread
It’s nature hangs on a rack 

All the trees are dead
The wind blows them in the sea
All of nature is dread 
The waves become their graves
All the trees are dead