Wicked Forest (wiersz)
A wicked forest stood still
with its pines crooked dreadfully
What force of a thousand cranes
has bent the trees to the shape of flames?
Underneath the moss was wet
padding the ground so woolly
How come that forest remains
against the winds with its native grace?
And what art thou doing here
oh, lady, all by thyself?
Over thy peaceful safe home
why would thou choose the great blue dome?
Regardless how far thou flee
thy enemy will not fade
Thyself the foe and thy fear
tell thy sorrow to the wicked trees