"Dryad and the mighty talk" by R.E. ´Riibu´ Kankaanpää

The beginning of autumn: leaves keep falling down... and we wither away with them. We are the dryads of these woods. When our trees begin their winterly sleep, we sleep as well. We sleep a dreamless sleep, death-like hibernation. So quiet is everything then... So still is all. No birds to fly over or sit on our trees leaves... No nests to hide amongst our trees foliage. All of us cry when the fall starts... All of us die when the winter enters upon our forest. Oh, how I envy those of warm lands, of no winter or fall to pest them. To cut them off from the fun that summer is. We envy evergreen dryads as well. They, at least, get to keep their looks. We age quite fast. We die every autumn, and reborn every spring. Never the same, always the same. When it's still spring, but close to summer, do we look our best.

I, for one, am not very eager to die. I have lived through 57 springs and summers. This would be my 57 death, but I am tired. I wish, upon a wish, that just once. Just once that I wouldn't have to leave my tree. Why can't I live in warmer lands? Why was I born in here, with.. winter? I shudder at the mere word. I wish my tree had legs, like me, so that we both could run away and live! Oh, 'tis sad. Oh poor me. Oh my poor, poor tree.

'What about us?', all the trees rustle. 'We die as well, but do you find us feeling sorry for that? There is a good reason why we all must die.'

So you say. So you whisper to our ears, but I cannot let my mind stop thinking such. I'm young, quite young for this age. I do not wish to part yet, can we not run away?

'We all must come to an end. We all must take our rest', they all whispered, their leaves rustling.

I fear, for my own part, and for you. What if we never wake up? What if the rest you so dearly talk about, turns to an eternal one? 57 springs and summers is not the most there has been, I would very much like to see another half a century, with you.

'Only another, not a three?'

The more the better, as you do know.

'We know, we know', the trees sang. 'We know so much.. if only you loves listened to us. So much to tell.. so little of listeners..'

You trees don't always have wonderful things to say. We want to be happy, not depressed and moody as you do. We do not wish to drop our leaves just because the apples haven't started to grow yet. Or anything for that matter.

'Hear us, this one time.. we have a matter to tell.' And the trees grew still, they were eager to tell.

Well, come, come. Tell us then.

'This winter, all shall die again. Next spring, none shall wake again.'

Why is that? We wake by spring-time, why do you say such now?

'We have heard, we have listened. While you, our little childs, played your games, did your tricks, we heard... We heard...'

Heard what? Come now, speak up dear trees!

'We have heard.. we shall all be cut down.'

And all grew very silent.

The dryads closed their eyes, and slowly passed away. The trees, once so mighty, now shrunk in their size and power, for the lord had came. The winter all of a sudden had arrived, their talking so eager, none had discovered, they had aged again. Now all lay still, as death came.