1.

 

Above my branches harp tones blow,

magic language nests in my leaves,

wheel of the gods’ carriage is 

circling in sand.

 

How sings a Wodan oak himself from

when time changes, tumbles down 

his words, causing winter white lines.

 

He finds himself deeper in this,

pole ice, country driven on?

 

 

2.

 

Open wind on our path

deforestation where storm for silence

also left language behind in runes,

 

Is happiness a coincidence

or whim of the gods,

offerer or offering?

 

Is the answer where

somebody judged

between the cut tree barks,

 

here where a buzzard

fell like an axe?

 

 

3.

 

This climbing land,

to higher idea

 

in green and umber,

dune yellow that melts

in transparent air,

 

is this old forest,

this wise waiting,

 

I am only a footstep.