I hear them speak,
I hear them creak.
Quiet now, can't you hear them?
whispering in the wind, there olden
voices soft as a spring breeze,
as old as the world herself.

Can't you hear them speaking
of wars and fires and famine,
of times when there was nothing,
when children would swing from there
high up branches and when songs
would be sung to them late at night
by the fairies of the forest.

They're speaking to us,
Can't you hear them my friend?
Can't you hear them whispering?
Listen to them, they tell of mysteries
and wonder. Listen my friend.
Listen.
The trees whisper.