When the wind moves, rustling the leaves of those trees, it is as if they speak. “Tomotada,” one tree seems to whisper, like a dreamer turning in sleep.
And the other seems to murmur as if in tender reply, “Green Willow, Green Willow.”
When the wind moves, rustling the leaves of those trees, it is as if they speak. “Tomotada,” one tree seems to whisper, like a dreamer turning in sleep.And the other seems to murmur as if in tender reply, “Green Willow, Green Willow.”