Melody from the undergrowth

At the heart of my inner Forest take root
Several tiny, tortuous, colourful and resonant Paths,
Fertile in Happiness and hidden Sorrow,
On which I step, Comfortable and at Peace.

At the Dawn of day I listen to the silent sap
Streaming up a node-hearted Oak, to the slow pulse
Of Time twisting old wrinkled birch trees,
In which rest buried Memories. I track down
Places with hesitant Outlines that strengthen
A child’s Imagination, a way to waken
Some Sleeping Beauties.

In a faded Dusk, I make out the intimate whispers
Of the forest, the dead bodies of kneeling dark Trees.
I caress the Mythological belly of the forest
So as to tame the wild Shadows of the night.
I shiver under the cold stare of the Moon
Chasing unlikely Creatures. I run off
Listening to the cries and silences of Owls.

Amidst soundless fogginess I hear
Hidden notes, a sweet Melody that gives me the Impression
Of musing at the foot of my hundred-year-old Friend
Secretly Entrusted with my wandering in the forest.
I conceal my lost Expectancies by taking a look behind,
All along the way I have come, I recognize Familiar Landscapes,
The blurred Outlines of my native land, its fragile expanses
That Time and Men will eventually stamp out…