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