In the forests, lost, I cut a dark branch
and to my lips, thirsty, I lifted its whisper:
it was perhaps the voice of the rain crying,
a broken bell or a torn heart.
Something which from so far seemed to me
gravely hidden, covered by the earth,
a scream deafened by immense autumns,
by the half open and moist darkness of the leaves.
But there, awaking from the dreams of the forest,
the branch of the hazel tree sang under my mouth
and its wandering smell climbed through my mind
as if suddenly the roots I had abandoned
were searching for me, the land lost with my childhood,
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.
