Winters blue wind,
Pierce through the gray sky.
Past the bare, stripped trees.
The trees are silent,
Like the dead of the winters night.

The trees have a song that is not sung,
A song of joy, fruitfulness, and the fullness of warmth.
They stand there, though, as if dead.
Uncovered in the bare wrath of the white season.
Uncensored by the nakedness of its branches.

Oh, trees, the creature full of mystery,
Come alive, so I may enjoy your rustling voice of old.
Let me see that green leaf dance,
Dance like the bees dance across petals of flowers.
Come to life my dear friends of wood, come.