It can happen that you come out of the wood,
( although you can’t know that for sure
because everything is possible and maybe
you have already been swallowed in it
and it’s not you who is now writing this..)
it can happen that fighting against
nettles and brambles you find your way through,
it can happen, but you can’t esteem
if some of that, or all, is only a dream:
the cutlass you heave, the warm rain
the hot gates and all the rest.
Dreams happen, impose themselves
like a casual rhyme,
a sudden dazzling chime.
You come out then, a clearing at last,
you breathe and your eyes sense a shine,
you enjoy the opening, you enjoy space.
the sun has come out with warmth and grace.
But it’s just a clearing, as beautiful
and transitory as this shiver in your feelings
and the wood is going to thicken once more over there
and it’s going to be only wood almost everywhere...
what is this dream going to prepare?
Or is it only the very hard rind of things?
The hold, brush and crust of the world?
Wood going into new wood,
new intricacies from old clearings?
For the moment you just sink
in the grass, the narrow present
might also be soft,
a butterfly alights,
gnats hurry in thickening spirals,
oh, you could fully breathe this dream now, let it swim,
out of joy, out of spite, out of all,
spitting the pips of your tangerine in the sky gold,
letting the sea of grass digress
even if only a moment remains, or less.
Change, rich and strange.
Beetles are swarming, May-bugs,
drunken drone and emerald shine,
you inhale this Kubla Khan of time,
yes, yes, everything changes because nothing does,
you plunge into your heart and merge in the buzz.