On this winding solemn road.

I didn't burn this bridge to mend it,

But to build a perfect throne.

I didn't wreath my head in flowers,

Only twisted, rotting thorns.

I merely die in April showers,

Feeding hungry, green-leaved hoards.

I have stayed here on the mountain,

Awaiting your return.

But now your head's a bloody fountain,

And in my home their fires burn.

Ravaged by emotions,

I descend, a mourning spirit.

Some hear my devotion,

And many others fear it.

Haunting in the willows,

Crying in the dawn.

Your life ended in the gallows,

And you bled out on the lawn.

I promised I'd protect you,

But I guess I was a liar.

And soon enough my willow tree was consumed by fire.