One day the Oak said to the Reed
"You've got good reason to blame Nature
A wren's a heavy burden for you
The slightest wind that, by chance
Wrinkles the face of the water
Makes you lower your head
While my brow, like the Caucasus
Not content with stopping the Sun's rays
Faces the fury of the storm
Everything's a North Wind to you
Everything feels like a Zephyr to me
If only you were born in the shelter of the foliage
With which I cover the surroundings
You wouldn't have so much to suffer
I'd shield you from the storm
But you most often grow
On the damp banks of the kingdoms of wind
Nature toward you seems really unfair to me"
"Your concern," the Shrub replied
"Comes from a kind heart, but drop that worry
The winds are less dreadful to me than to you
Faced their frightening blows
Resisting without bending your back
But let's wait for the end"
As he said these words
From the edge of the horizon rushes with fury
The most terrible of the children
That the North had until then carried in its womb
The Tree holds firm, the Reed bends
The wind redoubles its effort
And works so well that it uproots
The one whose head was close to Heaven
And whose feet touched the Realm of the Dead