It would mimic the giggles br And laughter of the kids played br In its thick shade, of which only br A memory hangs on her aged boughs. br br It would sing the songs br Of the lovers that once met br Under the cover of plush leaves br Whose whispers linger on her silent boughs. br br It would narrate the tale br Of the tireless miner br Who rested awhile between work, br Moisture of whose sweat wetted her barren boughs. br br It would call out to people br To pitch tents and begin life br For her roots go digging deep for hope br And life is all green again on her withered boughs.