The grey blots, they shiver across the white dawn
Mist cloaking the echoes of creaking birch trees
The cold silver smoke floats above the chilled pond
Which ripples, and placidly swims with the breeze

The grey ink, it spills and it wets the white sky
Now dripping the icy wet shivering beads.
The winds push away the cool fog, pinpricks fly
And cling to light cobwebs and shudd'ring green leaves

The black ink's soaked up by the grumbling high seas
The static and glass flicker down to the ground
The trees bend and flail in the whistling rip, seized
The pond is alive with wet ripples of sound

Black dawn crashes down as it rages with fire
Red flashes on darkness, they shriek and they scream
It wails like sirens, the birch trees so tired
Too bent, bruised, and broken to hold at the seams

I'd pick up and leave to go find that good home
Out there, somewhere near, it is golden and warm
Too heavy's my heart for the forest I've known
For those thrashing birches must suffer the storm
In sanctified soil, they've rooted and grown
They never could linger from where they were born

The sky's now torn open, the world is no more
But the trees, rooted firmly still wait out the storm.