Tree let your arms fall: raise them not sharply in supplication to the bright enhaloed cloud. Let your arms lack toughness and resilience for this is no mere axe to blunt nor fire to smother.
Your sap shall not rise again to the moon’s pull. No more incline a deferential head to the wind’s talk, or stir to the tickle of coursing rain.
Your former shagginess shall not be wreathed with the delightful flight of birds nor shield nor cool the ardour of unheeding lovers from the monstrous sun.
Tree let your naked arms fall nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball. This is no gallant monsoon’s flash, no dashing trade wind’s blast. The fading green of your magic emanations shall not make pure again these polluted skies . . . for this is no ordinary sun.
O tree in the shadowless mountains the white plains and the drab sea floor your end at last is written.