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