In the woods a name is heard,
a laugh that comes and goes,
in the buzz and in the drowning.
The trees are so big
like armed men
with branches that can fall
anytime.
In the middle of them,
there is no more heaven.
The camera moves away
separates from the leaves,
of the statues, of the giants,
and focuses on the tiny point
the one that is turning on his own axis,
and it is turning into a tree.
It wasn't a seed
not a stone breaking:
was a kid,
bull heart,
milk teeth.
So much time wasted
hidden among the herbs,
among the flowers, among the branches,
that closing my eyes,
it could be one of them.
He had learned to grow towards the imperceptible light,
like those bamboo
that we left obliquely on the window
and they bowed their heads, with the roots in colihué
towards the nearest sun, more artificial,
be it a ray, a lamp,
or the fire of a stove.
Any point, any connection, worked.
Again the lens retracts,
moves away from the flower-child,
until the ground underfoot gets wet.
How long have I been searching?
I know they are looking for me outside too.
The camera runs out of battery,
and transformation takes hold of the shoots:
they are born, by the thousands, in the mud,
surrounding me,
as if it were a ritual.
The child is coming
and between the petals of it is the water
from which all birds drink
from that place,
of the world without birds,
where they die when crossing
the shade of trees
that protects the temple.
Stained glass front
they reflect everything that happens,
they listen to the myth,
they turn it over.
And now I am no longer the bird,
I am the warrior root,
that looks out on every roof,
all stone, all earth.
A voice, repeat a laugh.
Only possibility to leave,
remember the time when I ran to the hammocks,
chase the memory of that moment,
and follow him, follow him out of the forest.
Layers of ivy are undressing
As I get closer to the eastern light
leaving behind trails of past conversions,
the camera, the stone, the flower,
all remain, there in the nascent fire.
When I get out
I am no longer afraid of trees.
They are almost tiny in the distance
they become observers of a square.
Because on the outside it is not more than that,
a square divided by five diagonals
leading to the fossilized flower-child,
beaten by the new summer.
In the woods a name is heard:
it's mine.