Tusk-ery

Warty we chew the roots of oaktrees,
in the humanoid wilderness,
acorn would fall on us which gives life.
We are snarling on him, who scraped something out.
Tusking, if the harvest fall on someone.
Fearing of scars, our life is an aspic trembling.
The life of many of us is only l'art pour l'art.

Bathing in our daily intrigues,
being pulled down to the ground,
we endure in our hymn until,
He scratches our dirty chestnut with us.
However the rain – from which our forest 

are so rich – is given by Him.

In the grubbed moorland sometimes there is truffle.
Without aim he can go crazy, who awakes unto consciousness,
even if intellect shines in his clayey eyes.