Oh thee petite pine tree!

Shapely you rise like a ladder to haven.

Your light branches welcome every season,

Be it a fine spring day or coldest of winters.

Your cone hides seeds in its layers,  

Which when falls scatters them,  

On the carpet of your needle like leaves!

Your other forms then rise

Like phoenix on other hill.     

When the snow hurricane sweeps the vale,

And the crested north winds rise high.

I hear moans of your fragrant branches,

Nurtured by a tender yet proud tree canopy.  

In woods, you congregate

With others of your species,

And talk about songs of an old epoch. 

It is said that you have been

On earth since some hundred years,  

Yet you gently sway

Like a young sapling

In the severe arid clime of mountains.