Three trees, struck down, were left by the
edge of the road.
The woodsman forgot them, so, they spoke,
clutching one and other out of love, like three blind men.
The dying sun spills its fiery blood
on the wounded logs,
While the fragrance of their open sides
is lifted away by the winds!
One, twisted, extends its mightly arm
with trembling leaves toward another,
and its wounds beg like
two pleading eyes.
They woodsman forgot them. Night is coming.
I will be one with them. Their mild resins
will flow into my heart. To me they’ll burn like fire.
And—day will find us, silent and clinging
together, in a heap of sorrow.