The ash tree
This tree, born from a seed,
now scrawny and with peeling bark,
once reached its arm to the sky
and entrenched its foot into the bowels of the earth.
Its branches knew of the existence
of things unsaid till then;
things not worth repeating because
they mean nothing now to those who hear them.
I was that ash tree that grew flowery
and strong as any among it;
and you were the meadowlark who sought
a safer shelter in its shadow.
In my world of a single inhabitant,
bordering the empire of the dead,
I got used to your song
as one gets used to a wound or to his body.
I thought you were made for me.
Now I'm a wind-blown trunk.
It's cold without you but I survive.
In autumn I grow older.