You are walking through the woods on a late fall day. All your friends are there. But you keep on worrying that it is getting late. The sun in setting. It won't be safe soon. You all have to turn back. Because you have seen these twisted woods before. Nothing but brambles and thrones and people who will be mislead into killing themselves. The path continues... It is muddy and wet and crossed by thorny bushes on all sides. Yet, they continue to walk, as though there destiny lie ahead. You screech, and scream, and tell them them to go back to the fields before true night comes, but they venture on as dusk sets its' ugly mask and turns to night. And so, they finally find the Witch and Her Tree. And the tree is standing tall, like a weeping willow, waving in the wind like one. But there is not any wind. The air is still. But the tree moves and whispers and shouts and howls, Like a wind blowing that can't make up its' mind. All of your friends, everyone that you have ever known, Leads you to this tree, Through the woods, With horses and lanterns and torches, And finally sees the tree. The Willow. The witch has sewn together men, all the way up. Two-dozen stout men at the bottom, to make up the trunk. Long and skinny people further along up, And women, with their spines bending backwards, making up the branches that wept downwards, As they dropped the children that were their fruit, Down onto the ground.