I've seen the sharp end of an arrow, beneath the horned spring moon
I've felt the sharp edge of a knife, upon the cold winter mud
I've tasted the sweetest wild berries, which I pulled straight from the vine
The wild honey's sweet kiss, summer pressed to my lips
I Feel the gra** beneath me; and the soil beneath the gra**;
and the roots beneath the soil; and the leaves above the roots...
And you who sings of the forest: have you ever pressed seed to soil?
Or felt the sharp kiss of thorns? - Or slept unter a storm?