One day the oak tree said to the reed:
"You have good cause to blame nature;
A wren for you is a heavy burden,
        The lightest wind that chances 
        To ripple the surface of the water
        Obliges you to bow your head;
Whereas my brow, like the Caucasus,
Not content to block the rays of the sun,
        Braves the force of the tempest.
Everything is North wind to you, but seems a zephyr to me.
If only you were born under the cover of the leaves
        With which I shelter my surroundings,
        You wouldn't have so much to endure,
        I would protect you from the storm;
        But most often you are born
On the wet banks of the realms of the wind;
It seems to me that nature is very unfair to you."
"Your compassion," the shrub answered him,
"Arises from natural kindness, but leave off worrying;
    The winds are less fearsome to me than to you,
I bend, and do not break. Until now you have 
        Withstood their terrible onslaughts 
        Without bending your back;
But let's see how it ends." As he was saying these words,
From the far horizon comes in a furious rush
        The most dreadful of the children 
That the North had ever borne in its flanks.
        The tree holds firm; the reed bends.
        The wind redoubles its efforts,
        And does so well that it uproots
The one whose head was neighbor to the heavens,
And whose feet touched the empire of the dead.