The Butterflies Grace

the Weeping Woman

There is a woman, a woman of lore

But the woman of old is known no more

She is a story that no one will remember

The tale of old humans have burnt out it's ember

Clad in white, she weeps by the tree

Her soul inside will never be free

Alone in the woods, she feels nothing but obscurity

All from the humans own insecurity

Covered where her eyes had been, nothing in sight

She cries all day for she can't see the light

The people of old has forsaken her

These 3000 years to her have been a blur

She sits alone, in the forest so cold

The story of the woman, no longer told

No one looks for he in the woods anymore

As all her people once did before

I know of a story, a story that's true

Of a woman whose life is never through

She sits by the tree weeping all day

For there is no one who can take her away