The trees so huge the treetops can’t be seen;

A pretty pink flame from the setting sun

Makes every branch’s tip a candlestick.

Down the path the tiny people walk.

Let’s hold hands, and walk with our heads raised

So the forest of grass won’t make us lose our way.

The Night has started to seal the flowers closed.

Color after color pours down the sky.

Up there, gold jugs spill out a party supper,

Red wine flowing from the aspen-tinted copper.

A cloud-carriage full of presents appears—

Gifts for invisible kings, or maybe for the bears.