Whispers went down the village from the hill of the old willow.
Voices carried down to town at midnight across the meadow.
Stories were told next to the fireplace to deprive children of sleep,
They are about the strangest case of tragic love, so difficult to keep.
He danced at dawn with a rope and wore it around his neck.
She mourned his man; he was floating in the air from his legs.
The same song played every Sunday, it made her deathly ill.
Her pain was excruciating by Friday, so she went up the hill.
He was swinging on the tree then he leered, calling his sweetheart, his widow.
He handed a rope to her when the moonlight reflected on each and every window.
When the sun came out a child found her pale and still, but still a beauty.
Her blotchy red lips and the gory scars on her neck could not compare to those the loss of his one had left on her heart.
Light lived in her eyes which looked up at the sky, they took her down and it wat their body they took to sanctify on a cart.
When she joined his man there were no wails, although her body was sooty.
Whispers go down the village from the hill of the old willow.
Voices carry down to town at midnight across the meadow.
They are dancing at dawn with a rope around their necks.
They swing on the tree, where their love left scarlet flecks.
