The tree turns black in the early light.
He seems to be guarding the landscape
Its branches serve as a shepherd's staff.
The night people are still sitting in the branches,
The mistletoe ball looks threatening.
There is an oppressive, deep silence
Not a breath of air, not a fall of leaves.
There, suddenly the source of life is on fire
On the horizon like embers of food.
The tree turns green in fresh light
And take the people of the day in hat.
