On higher branches, emptiness grows
They once held leaves, before they froze
The tree now holds naught but a single rose
And dreams of what it once had
Beneath it sings an oldened young lad
Whose tunes are slow and mostly sad
And never perfect and often bad
He cries till the tips of his toes
Such is the life of the winter tree:
Happiness is often beyond its reach
So its sadness spreads like a fungal sea,
A testament to its long pain
It causes the lad to weep beneath rain
For all his hopes have now been slain
He has nothing to lose, less still to gain
In this land of forever winter, it seems
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