The spruce cries merry tears of sap,
like molasses or honey-
the bark holds no bucket or tap,
and now it's all sticky;
it cries, it stings with pine
as we strut through the forest
as if it were yours, as if it were mine,
let us venture, dearest.

A sickly sweet smell
of a steaming liquid, tainted rouge from the cinnamon-
the potion of peace, what a brew;
will it help me sleep?
Surely, it was made with simplicity;
tea leaves in hot water,
no divination necessary.

My dear, my friends, countrymen!
Lend me your ears and take my word as gospel;
the soldiers come in blood-stained tunics and armour of leather, they come to fight on the plains if we engage-
we shan't sacrifice all these men, no!
Pay the ransom in silver and gold, let it not become sultry!

I am woman, a reproach to men
and despised;
a humbling demonstration of vulnerability, me?
Not at all, no; I shall show you my strength,
use my knowledge and my language
to educate you on the matter-
I am afraid I am the bringer of bad tidings,
for you will be disappointed to hear
that you are not superior.

To be a poet is to be a sage,
it is to know sorrow;
they were scathed in battle
and their skull is not hollow-

To be a poet is to be wise,
to know true agony;
to have clear, knowing eyes
after years of tragedy.

You bear fruit, ripe;
seeds float through the being of wind!
Write to the sky, the sky! - With the feather of a dove.

I solemnly worship in all my piousness;
you have my loyalty.

My adherence is yours, Lady and Lord, what is my duty to you?

Need I give gold, need I give blood?
Need I give life, need I die?

My oath, to you, I shall not adjourn Fate; you have my piety.