By the silvery pathway, the moon arose
To the firmament, black as a scorched faith,
And by its majestic and serene glare
It tenderly touched the mighty forest.
The wood slept in his crowns and roots shade
And saw the moss and weeds in his dreams.
Like a warriors, trees stood immovable,
Not hiding their honor and grandeur.
And stars shineth like eyes of the wolf,
Their glare not at once drowns in a river,
Upon river’s hands, cold and long,
That shine was brought far among mounts.
And utter grim fog weaved all around,
He claimed unto clouds with a rustle of leaves,
He told everything about stubs and fir-trees,
About all that was true and unreal - he said.
Yet the forest not slept, he arose his temples,
And shadows of trees seemed as alive.
A land gave her heat, a captive flame
That she kept for descendants unto this day.
And smog arose high from mountains peaks,
Their steam returned back by the rains,
An air, thick as the mists above lake,
Was wandering through the nocturnal wood…
And the raven, huge even like not a bird,
Hovered above forest, by the mountains peaks.
By the gaze full of wisdom, attentive and sharp gaze
He watched his skog by the order of gods.
And there, in the very heart of the wood,
Far from the glades and narrow tracks,
In the nest that he built with patience and hope
He beheld his sons - that were dead yet…