There is a forest in the north, and its tree's weep white"Where the rubber grows!"
-where the rubber grows.
In drifting mists of morning light, they stand right dressed
-as soldiers know.
Those men of the south sort shelter from the storm, lay still
-in the mud beneath them.
With shattered trunks and broken limbs, the weeping white trees
-did proclaim them.
In white dripping silence came a gentle weeping, away to the south
-where the Wattle grows.
Brothers carry pride in the past, for sort and seeker held fast
- when the tree's bled white-