Tilh

LINDENS

 

Thirteen linden trees stand thick together

One against the other on the dry bank

Their heads held straight in the blue heaven

At the time when I was young

They were already grown

Thirteen lindens in a cluster

A bouquet of dark green

Immense. Giants

On the horizon.

 

These lindens are not my possession

Yet I possess the right

To cut them down

They are sucking the sap of my land

With their roots so long.

But I won't. I would miss them

For they are part of that living tableau

That forms the framework of my life.

I would miss them.

They are my organ,

They are my harp,

When the wind plays on them

Its thousand different notes.

When the crow caws

On their bare winter branches

When on their dark summits

The yellow-beaked blackbird whistles,

And when from their highest limb flow

The crystal drops

Of the nightingale.

 

10/10/1965.