The hill is green, its verdant slopes rolling to the stream
While the grasses are blowing in the wind, their sweet scent upon the breeze
Showing that in springtime, the hillside’s young and new
While the tall tree at the summit holds, its boughs forever true.
The hill is bright, the summer flowers shining above the brook
And gazing at the grasses growing, the world demands another look,
For here in the summer, the hillside is so bright
And at the summit stands a tree, a bold silhouette before the light.
The hillside’s green is darker, its slopes tumbling towards the torrent
As the flattened grasses before the storm bend in the weather abhorrent.
In autumn it appears that the promise of life given before
Was only for a moment, though the tree stands as in days of yore.
The hillside is now barren, grey slopes above the stream
Few grasses betray the glory of their younger and verdant green.
But though it is deep winter, some promise still holds – see!
Above the desolation stands the single, living, tree.