One thousand, three hundred years Every day, it's raining still No one's out there in my garden ...I take a seat on the windowsill In the trees I find my comfort Though sometimes trees, too, stand in vain If the trees can feel my vibe Do they know the kind of pain? There are those who are depressed And there are those who are oppressed But the trees know not nor care Which painting of them is the best I know it's not this one, nor that Nor that one yet For all the mighty masterpieces We have never seen the best غابتي خدي مطرح مرايتي خدي مطرح شفرتي وما في هم غير ورد أبيض ورد أبيض Forests, friends, a sea of land That once we knew, along with sand Sometimes blue and gold and bright But always warm like the elders' hands It took a turn at being liked And being bought, and being sold Until all those who knew it once Now sleep with their eyes covered in gold Strange folk, they keep busy By painting their roses red They climb atop their towers While we climb into our beds For the crime of simply knowing The sentencing is to the death Before the white roses were planted Our trees had never bled Through the mist we once emerged Into the mist we now escape But be it here, or be it there Some men use mist to excuse rape As children roam, smiling and bare, Our eyes are large, our homes are far We have no need to cut down trees Our hall and hearth are in the stars Strange folk, they seek what they have not While they see not what they do have And I do watch, and I do wonder Do their ancestors have no wrath? Before the crime was simply knowing We knew the babes, we knew the dead Before the white roses were planted Our trees had never bled غابتي خدي مطرح مرايتي خدي مطرح شفرتي وما في هم غير ورد أبيض ورد أبيض