The Paper Birches sing your name,
the Black Willow whispers mine.
As the day becomes undone,
and all our longing remains unsung,
we speak of fears we hide inside
and of thoughts we're troubled by.
So little do we know of life,
but enough to know and feel the strife
of trying to capture our essence,
while also trying to figure out
who we are and will become,
where we'll be and when we'll meet,
and if things will ever be the same.
Oh, life is cruel, we know for sure,
for if there's beauty, there is also
death and struggle; this we've seen.
Still I can't think of a different way to be,
than to fully embrace and to fully realise
that inside what's old something is growing;
an end which holds a beginning too.
And you should know that inside of you
I still see a door, and the start of something new.