I stand next to the drooping tree, crying. Goodbye. The wind blows, shaking the boughs of the tree, and my tears are surrounded and cleared by blowing leaves that reach out and caress my face.

I say goodbye as I die here, next to a tree, and my emotions become the clouds.
My tears become the rains, my blood waters the soils. My mass becomes the flowers you can find in the Spring next to a tree.

My voice is the whistle in the wind as I blow past your ear. My whistle wraps around the leaves of a tree blowing them, as they caress the tears of someone crying by a tree.