I am a birch tree slim and elegant,
swaying in my white robe,
my green hair flowing.
Posing my branches for my various fans.

Truly a sight to be hold.
Then the fall comes,
turning my hair to liquid gold.
Men walk past me with hungry eyes.

They plunder me of my worth.
Leaving me bald, now the crow is my only friend.
Children rip off pieces of my robe,
and the crow builds its nest out of it.

Machines come and they kill me.
Now I’m just a trunk, without a peace of mind,
as Man still won’t leave me alone.
the beavers eat it,
My limbs are cut and sold.

I’m cut into logs and burned.
The evidence of Man’s crime destroyed.
Now I’m just ashes, blown away by the wind,
along with the song of the crow.

Truly a sight to be hold.
Then the fall comes,
turning my hair to liquid gold.
Men walk past me with hungry eyes.
They plunder me of my worth.

Leaving me bald, now the crow is my only friend.
Children rip off pieces of my robe,
and the crow builds its nest out of it.
Machines come and they kill me.

Now I’m just a trunk, without a peace of mind,
as Man still won’t leave me alone.
the beavers eat it,
My limbs are cut and sold.

I’m cut into logs and burned.
The evidence of Man’s crime destroyed.
Now I’m just ashes, blown away by the wind,
along with the song of the crow.