In the loneliness of a large plain that is like the nostalgia of the endless night, a tall black tree is the last green tree standing on it, but the wound of the axe is not a heart that has been shot, nor is it a name, its branches are full of bird feathers , the clean hive involved and the spell, what birds that became guests of its green table on the road of migration, or the travelers who under its umbrella axed their tired bodies until one day you came. Tired with a beautiful old pod, with you, there was no greenery, no mirror, no water , there was an axe, with you with the lever of a stone, that proud tree whose head is reaching the sun, I am the tree that has surrendered to the axe, which is a concern for birds, I am me, I am the green voice of the lead soil , the voice that laughs at its dagger, the voice that is not a shout in the night of the plain, but the peak of a dance. Your soft hand, the axe in your hand, with the attack of the hungry and hard axe , the last image of being bitter in the green mind of the last tree, now in the count of my seconds, the unsafe beating of the axe, the axe axe, which is always the enemy, this tree is strong and strong, I
think of the fatigue of my birds , hit you, hit the axe, I think of the homesickness of my traveler , strike the last blow harder.
