There is a place on this earth, where I so have been fixed. Under a small rolling hill, under the tall tall trees, there I am a wooden bench. I watch the seasons as they come and go, the green gets brown and sometimes white. and then they come in all colors and sizes, happy and lonely, crazy and funny, just jostle around under the trees , walk the trails on the hill and then come and catch a breath on me, under my old friend tree.
Some would say well what a life, you have! Stuck at a place, mute and dumb, sitting out in cold and sun, just watching the people scratch their names on your back and sit for a while, we guess you wait to rot and be at last free.
Well yes I am dumb and mute, so I can't refute. But I know sitting here under the tree I learnt so much from just watching thee.
Motifs and names engraved on my skin, by lovers and freaks, just wiling away their time. No they never had a grudge, but I guess just had to fidget, and leave a scar to remember them by.
Sitting under an old tall tree, on the edge of that small rolling hill, yeah you will find me rooted to the spot, mocking the rain and scorning the sun. I stay put like a sentinel of constancy,in an effervescent world. This low under bush that so tickels my legs, with crickets and birds perching on my head and aimless leaves of the passing autumn finding a moments peace lying on my face, the flying moments of a dying day and the burning red ball of the sky getting devoured by the land, I watch it all, with bored eyes, cause forever have I watched these tricks, been around for some years now, sitting here and seeing it all and still saying nothing to top it all, well cause no soul would think that me, an old wooden bench, also got a tale to tell.
For often have I touched and felt the beauty of this life, for many maidens have come and sat on me just shoeing the breeze, and I have sat frozen and fascinated staring at their face's every crease
The tresses of the lovely hair and gentle touch of the playful nail, oh how often have I fell in love with a passing lovely maid.
Guess you think I only saw the beauty and missed the beast, but both I have clearly seen
I wonder why god chose to make something so pretty and still ugly within,for all the maidens I have seen, somehow selfish they all have been.
But for this groovy heart of mine, I would have better been a cask for wine.’ cause wine would give the cask some pleasure and in turn take my color, these maidens you see only longing they seem to give, woods also have a fate, some end up being a cask of wine and some just benches destined to whine.
