Well, the king of the wind took the copse in his hand
And shook the spark out of it's bow
Said the copse to the king: Why must you ring the life out my bones?
We're just holding our hands
Minding our plans
Not one of us here knows cruel
We'll wither and die all in good time
When our babies grow up round our toes
Said the copse to the king: Your reckoning is misplaced in our field of fallow

Just further east there's a meadow
Harrowed and pitted and scarred
With trenches so deep that a salmon could leap from one end to the other unharmed
Have the birds no need for their king?
Where the sky churns into mallow?
Said the copse to the king: Why must you bring your judgement to our field of fallow?

My fingers are splayed and thus tire
My fingertips singed from the Sun
It's true that my fruit does come with the spring
But the autumn has left me with none
So you see I've really nothing to offer if my time has come to go
Take my strength and my breath
And my greens and my reds
And spread them in my field of fallow