Our forest, which is a haven.
If harried is your name,
Your time has come, there will be din,
Unearthed in global warming.
Come this way, our airy bed,
and fuel of our tree spices.
As we’re furtive, those who try, pass among us
And delay knot into time’s station.
But deliver us from nail,
Floor shine is the ransom. The bower, forest story,
Fir, ever and ever, green.