You are vulnerable. A fir-tree living on a balcony.
Your crown unkindly forces you to remember the hostile
anonymity of green expanses.
And the fleeting glory of fatuous Christmas-lights,
lofty wildernesses so feebly jollified, with desire
and an aftertaste of sin.
And who knows whether rain is falling because you want to weep,
because climate and love might well be part of the same
thing. Part of the same puzzle of clouds that struggle
and whirl from one white-coloured mountain to another, undoing
the work they have made. Part of the faded watercolour landscape
painted by the child we imagine we once were.
And if you are weeping now it's not because it's teeming down,
big fat drops of summer rain that wash away all colours,
but because of the dream you've lost: you dreamed that it was raining.
And because, in spite of yourself, you give thanks for life.

Translated by Anna Crowe