I know a forest: a madhouse for trees,
Locked in the forest. The watchman keeps the key.
The trees rip the birds off their heads. Rustle to the silence.
In a storm, they drink the wine of its lightning.

Through the corridors, green as copper-eve,
Stroll the days. One by one, they come, in white
Robes. Through the same green aisles
They flee with searing stains on the white.

Every tree a prison in a prison. Only roots
Streaming out with mossy, subforest laughter,
Groping and clutching bones and skulls,
Drilling into them the madness of life.

1978