The trees are different
These days
They seem smaller
They show stains
Their leaves colour brighter, yet bruised and marked
Our wood is less wood, it is a forest swamp
The birds sing
In a less cheerful tone
Their nests are
Not even their home
Where is the hay, straw and the glue
What not is, not was, what never grew
But most of all
Where is the light
The typical ray
Of misty light
The morning smell
With dew on grass
The wood, the swamp, not is, not was
Not is, not was
Not is, not was
Not is, not was
Not is, not was