I farm the trees of this forest
For my brothers and sisters
In this cold Northern clime
They grow so slowly
Not at all in the winter months
Quickly in the long summer days
The wood of the evergreens is prized
For their tools, furniture and carvings
Boats, ships and longhouses
And their bows and spearshafts
Should we strip the forest to save the world?
What good is the world without my trees?
Your lord is not my lord
Still less is he my king
And I would not fulfil this order if he is chosen
Tell him I will make the choice
Of how much I must sacrifice
To feed the needs of this war
And if the world burns for lack of timber
I take full responsibility
As I have always done
These many centuries for the woods
Number 333 is another Elf Poem. It picks up a stray line from the previous one, and runs with it. Want more elf poems? Then click here.