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.