It struck as odd, one afternoon, as I continued on:
Why are these woods so cold and bleak and bare of any song?
Forgive me, for I miss a page in this unhappy tale -
In spring and summer, winter, fall, they're empty without fail.
Not only one, you understand, but every season through:
The branches bare, the foxes sleep - no life is born anew.
However, I accept my lot, and lose no precious peace;
For you, the sun sets in the west, for me it's in the east.