You were very little then.
Your praise was everywhere, plane!
"Proud" to beauty and “smart” in height.
Every passer-by used to tell you, plane

You would take pride with your high bearing.
Among the bushes where you grew
You would seem very satisfied from yourself.
When moss grew leaning to your body

You would say that your height is higher than others,
In the dense forests with hornbeam, oak,
Your friend, comrade envies you,
When talk is going on your praise.

You rose continually with such dreams.
You did not see pine tree under your umbrella,
You grew old when it grew in height.
You did not see wish which should be got from you.

Many years, centuries passed,
At last your end came too.
To your rotten root, dried body.
Every passer-by simply looked and passed