It is night I can see,
no need for car headlights.
Among the trees a hundred different greens,
pile of mute forms
I try to get my hands on:
my fingers rain on every leaf,
I snake along the crowns,
nurture the roots.
Of course there are voices, too,
and I remember a time
when I was part of this.
Now I want to write and am
only a faint soughing through the trees.

Translated by Christopher Whyte