Our turn. 

I wonder if I have friends who care for me. 

But I do have friends who do not speak.

 No, Zephyrus doesn't whisper.

 Nor does he kiss the cheek of friendless freaks. 

Yet he wraps me in an embrace like that of a brother. 

Oh, the trees don't move, they do not flee.

 Like the others when I'm in times of need. 

They grant me shade 

even when I've been betrayed. 

By those who call me their friend. 

Those wounds they've caused to which they never tend. 

The warmth of Apollo who wipes my tears. 

Making me smile brighter than himself in years. 

What have I done to deserve them all? 

Should I keep mum and watch the trees fall? 

Watch my friends fall to their knees from the wrath of a greedy blade?

 Cover my ears, ignore their pleas as the melodious chirpings fade. 

By loving and caring for us, they've committed a huge mistake.

 Now tell me, after everything they've done, must we forsake? 

Will Zephyrus cry? Will Zephyrus sigh? 

When he realizes my gratitude was nothing but a lie.

 Oh, what will Pan say? 

Dead on the ground the trees lay. 

When the tunes of Pan's reed flute cease. 

The world shall forever be deprived of peace. 

The melody played by Apollo's lyre

 will be the last thing I hear as I perish in my guilty fire. 

Filled with sorrow, Apollo rages and burns. 

Declaring that to pay it will finally be our turn.