Do you want me to be like a fir tree, green,
It is always green, both in winter and autumn.
Do you want me to be flexible like a willow,
So that I could bend without straightening up.
But I'm a different tree.
If you peel the skin off the trunk with a plane,
Saw it, dry it, and then paint it,
Then the mast of an ocean ship can rise,
A red violin, a spear, a red or a white deck may be born. And I don't want to be skinned.
I don't want to be painted, dried, whitewashed.
No, I don't want that.
Not because I'm better than other trees.
No, I'm not saying that.
It's just that I'm a different tree.
They say if the trees lie in the ground for a long time, Then they turn into coal, into coal,
They burn for a long time without burning, and this gives warmth.
And I want to reach for the sky.
Not because I'm better than other trees, no.
It's just that I'm a different tree.
I am such a tree.