In the forest they did gather
Bark and moss in sunny weather;
Later rested in the shade
And forgot their daily trade.
Mushrooms, sweet wood, herbs galore
Forest bowels gave of yore.
Men and children, women too,
Picked red berries as they grew.
Time flew by and progress prodded
Products, packets. They all nodded.
Now the land's with pop cans strewn.
Woodlands sing a different tune.
Strawberries as big as fists
Burst from grocers produce lists;
Long stamped out from memory
Tiny, tart, wild strawberry.
Knobbly bark is calling me
Gnarled root twists I long to see.
Ancient oak trees stood sublime.
Let me wander to that time.
Shiny bright are modern wares
Easy pickings, fewer cares.
Why then do I feel that moss
Is the gold, the other dross?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Moss, bark, wild mushrooms, herbs, they all look and smell so nice, 'tiny, tart wild strawberry', so delicious, what wonderful memories, certainly gold, Liilia