From the tree bleeds
liquid moon
to feed the rivers
and to drive away the wolves.
Its roots are the last
in that land
where ever
there had been winter.
The trunk is crooked
and shades a hemisphere
while filling the other with leaves.
In one of its branches
dangle the slippers of a warrior
that reached the end of the hill.
The sword is stuck in the ground
while the flower lights
adorn the dagger.
Had heaven ever existed
and now there are only apples.
Today is the last day of the tree,
and trembles at the thought that men will come
and they will take away the fruits.
He twists without force to the other side,
and the movement floods the whole world
of moon and leaves.
There they are, there they are.
With the shield
of stones and roots
we make a fort.
I wish there was summer one more time
so we could make sand castles
and sink our hands around
so that the warriors fall from the bucket.