A hidden, secret tree,
A product of the mud —
A brother to my weariness,
A kindred to my blood
Alone, and in the fog,
Sits waiting for the Spring:
The way that you and I must wait
For nigh on
Everything
A hidden, secret tree,
A product of the mud —
A brother to my weariness,
A kindred to my blood
Alone, and in the fog,
Sits waiting for the Spring:
The way that you and I must wait
For nigh on
Everything