Smoke rising,
fire wood under my arms,
I hurry.
Hurry back to the peaceful woods,
through the deep dark shadows,
over snow-covered ground.
My naked feet are cold,
I hear the shots afar.
Oh, don't let them find me!
Branches brushing off me,
bruising and scratching my face,
almost falling I hurry on,
I hurry to my home.
My home,
where I can smell the resin
and the warm wood,
where the fire warmth embraces me,
where I can hear nothing
but the whispering.
The warm whispers
of the pine trees,
the whispers of the fir,
the call of birds,
the steps of the fox
and the stories of my fire.
