It’s nice to live under a tree

This tree, this wise old tree

Leans her back on to mine

While seeing those pretty geese dine

In a musical score created by the sweet rustle leaves from the pines

In a sensible way, ease my mind.

This tree, this wise old tree

A humble serenity where I found the key

To be someone who I’m supposed to be.

Yet, being me was not the real me

This tree know who I need to be

Then I see her old, old trunk,

I stroke her smooth, smooth yellow brown leaves,

 Protects me from all the plague of sadness,

Then the she sweeps all those windy darkness I see

Away from me. Away from me.

The sunset arrives, some clouds shall fly away

Yet the morrow never betrays

--The hatching sun in the east eventually springs.--

As ravens sit on her branch, and shouting the day,

And my hands hold the wrinkled roots of her; I say

“It was nice to live under this tree.”