TREE
The tree has been torn up by the roots.
A thousand fine root hairs are drying out in the sunshine.
Cockroaches and centipedes have moved out.
The worms have left the clumps of earth.
Never more will its branches rise skywards.
They will dry out. They will decay.
They will forget
the water’s highways through their fibres.
The tree has been torn up by the roots.
But the leaves still feel their way. For a few more days
they rest, open to the blue sky.
For a few more days they stretch out
towards the sun.
And this was a tree at the roadside.
Humbly serving the one who believes in reality.
But this tree has grown elsewhere,
has deeply sucked juice and nourishment out of life
and yet was sentenced to be torn up by the roots.
And although I know this to be in vain –
no more than leaves on branches already dead –
I pray for a miracle even so: may the tree grow green,
may its branches unfurl!
Who owns life? Who do scent and sunshine belong to?
Oh, dead tree that must dare to grow green!
Oh, leaves that force themselves to seek the sun!
But nothing can be compared with anything else,
for trees are trees and humans are humans.
And since I know that this is in vain,
I remain silent and pray for nothing.
But he who believes he knows the tree’s semblance
from all the thousands of cockroaches underneath,
he shall be given the tree torn up by the roots
and the crown now facing the earth.
Maybe the bird of life is singing in its branches.
To see the original Swedish poem, go to here.
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