The people say you’re sad. Perhaps it’s because you always stretch your long, wispy fingers towards the ground, but you can scarcely touch it. Or it is because the weight of the entire world seems to lie upon your shoulders. Maybe it’s because you watch the children play every single day right at your feet, but you can never join their jolly games, scream in joy like they do and hop around like rabbits.
You have seen lots of them in the many summers you lived through. You are so much older than all of them, but amongst your breed, you’re one of the younger ones. The years and people have left their scars on your skin. Some were caused by love, some by anger, and some by ignorance or boredom. But your heart remains young and happy. You enjoy seeing all those different people, witness the turn of the seasons year after year with the course of day and night surrounding you.
Your skin is dark brown from the sun; wind and weather turned it raucous. Your hair changes in the course of every year, it turns from green to red and brown, and in winter you’re totally bald. But your soul stays the same, and when the first snow comes, you catch the snowflakes gently and offer a comfortable place for them to sit down and rest after heir long journey down from the clouds. On frosty days, you shine and glisten in your white dress and your fingertips caress the snow on the ground while you dance in the sunlight.
Lovers hid amongst your twigs, wayfarers rested at your stem and dreamers told you about their fantastic visions. The stories you can tell are about all of them, and you could fill a whole library with them. So you’re living your happy life, giving shadow to those who search for it on hot days, giving shelter to those who have to stay in secret and giving comfort to those who have no other place to go to. The people call you “weeping willow”, but no one has ever seen you cry.