DESCRIPTION:
It was just before the moon hung her weary heavy head in the gallows and the graves, the milky, milky cradle. His tears have turned to poppies, a shimmer in the midnight, a flower in the twilight, a flower in the twilight.
And our screaming is in his screaming. Our screaming in the willow tree.
They had took him to the gallows, he fought them all the way, though. And when they asked us how we knew his name...
We died just before him. Our eyes are in the flowers, our hands are in the branches, our voices in the breezes.
And our screaming is in his screaming. Our screaming in the willow tree.
We're waiting by the willow, our milky, milky cradle. Our lockets long have rusted, his picture worn and weathered. Our hair is in the garden, the roses in our toeses, our hearts are in the blossoms, our hands are in the branches.