Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where they strung up the man they say murdered three Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where the dead man called out for his love to flee Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
Are you, are you Coming to the tree Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
A maid walked out one day, one day She met an aged man by the way His head was bald, his beard was grey His clothing made of the cold earthen clay His clothing made of the cold earthen clay
She said, "Old man, what man are you? What country do you belong unto?" "My name is Death - hast heard of me? All kings and princes bow down unto me And you fair maid must come along with me."
"I'll give you gold, I'll give you pearls I'll give you costly rich robes to wear If you will spare me a little while And give me time my life to amend And give me time my life to amend."
"I'll have no gold, I'll have no pearls I want no costly rich robes to wear I cannot spare you a little while Nor give you time your life to amend Nor give you time your life to amend."
In six months time this fair maid died; "Let this be put on my tombstone," she cried "Here lies a poor distressed maid All in her prime she was snatched away Her clothing made of the cold earthen clay.
Joined: 18 Jun 2012 Age: 59 Gender: Female Posts: 20,471 Location: Aux Arcs
23 Aug 2017, 9:34 am
You tell me then that I must perish, Like the flowers that I cherish. Nothing remaining of my name, nothing remembered of my fame? But the gardens I planted still are young- the songs I sang will still be sung.
Huexotzin Prince of Texico 1484
Painted Poetry
Someone laid his brush and took his brush away. He left gold or blue there he did not hope to live forever; he left green or black there and minute cranes were flying. The painting was breathing the air while drying. He did not wish to live forever.
Jane Tassi
_________________ I am the dust that dances in the light. - Rumi