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Description
Six months since I left the forest
And still I have no name for it,
Cannot say the meaning of
The lanky pine trees that
Lend voices to the wind.
Still, soundless, the winter
Was like the owl, its iciness
Was the owl’s gaze.
But nothing was more precious than
The April snow, nothing brighter
Than the August stream, nothing
Longer than a summer
Before leaving. The forest
Was a good place to hide lunacy.
The ferns, the pebbles, the moon
Did not hold my pain, but still
I left it with them. I live in a stone
House now, I walk on old stony
Streets, my heart is a stone
That dimly senses the hell
That was always with me. Each heart
is a cocoon that grows stone-like
in autumn, to brutally burst open
on stormy nights before the first snow.

Description
Six months since I left the forest
And still I have no name for it,
Cannot say the meaning of
The lanky pine trees that
Lend voices to the wind.
Still, soundless, the winter
Was like the owl, its iciness
Was the owl’s gaze.
But nothing was more precious than
The April snow, nothing brighter
Than the August stream, nothing
Longer than a summer
Before leaving. The forest
Was a good place to hide lunacy.
The ferns, the pebbles, the moon
Did not hold my pain, but still
I left it with them. I live in a stone
House now, I walk on old stony
Streets, my heart is a stone
That dimly senses the hell
That was always with me. Each heart
is a cocoon that grows stone-like
in autumn, to brutally burst open
on stormy nights before the first snow.