The high densely packed forests are enthroned On hills gently arched and covered - Their crowns rustle in home melancholy.
They are filled with flight and weatherweaving Of the flaming clouds that fly overhead at sunset With a heavy flapping of wings.
At her feet, where the broad ploughs Even furrows draw in the arable land, Quietly builds a narrow existence that is enough for itself.
And of the span of life and death Year after year mysteriously weaves a ribbon To their leaf splendor and discoloration.
