A man labeled a maniac recalls moments of pure sensory wonder: the birch trees’ white melody at dusk, the silent clash of pines, wind rushing through grasses as if invisible companions swept past. He insists he lived fully through nothing but eyes and ears, absorbing the natural world without interference. Then he turns on someone else — the “you” who puts on green spectacles before looking at roses. The accusation lands quietly but sharply: your vision is manufactured, tinted, safe. There’s an eerie, knowing sadness in the contrast. The supposed madman seems clear-eyed and alive, while the ordinary observer hides behind filters, missing the world’s raw music. The mood hovers between a kind of ecstatic loneliness and a calm, unsettling irony.
"I have heard the sunset song of the birches," — Summary
"I have heard the sunset song of the birches, A white melody in the silence, I have seen a quarrel of the pines. At nightfall The little grasses have rushed by me With the wind men. These things have I lived," quoth the maniac, "Possessing only eyes and ears. But you -- You don green spectacles before you look at roses."