Through so many cruel tortures in summer
The faith lifted high by birches never hesitate
The off-color leaves wanted to fly
But fell to the ground
And were swept away by the rude autumn wind
Now the birches no longer bow to utter quotations
Instead, they erect straight and write the Bible in the blue sky
Also I took off my jacket that hides the naked truth
And raised my bare hands
Following the trees, giving away to the bare dialogue of soul-to-soul
I heard the whispers by the birches
Then the laughter one by one
They mocked me as nothing but a cross in the autumn
Me is neither of a tree, nor of a flower, nor of a weed
I say walking in the fall while every tree is my Sunday church