How close and different
the leaves of the same tree.
They grow silently
in the contemplation of themselves,
of their edges,
in the thorough work of the insect
that wounds them.
Just united eternally
by a thread of sap
to the bark of the world,
to its vegetable nature.
The wind forces them to bend
on their own shadow
and in the unique mystery
of being a Willow or a Hazel-nut tree,
they adhere, they interpenetrate
without disturbing themselves.
Thus, they will receive at the same time
their drop of rain,
the igneous kiss of summer.
They will also fall under the same light,
they will surround as diverse syllables
of the same alphabet
the depth of the roots,
the dark crevice of the trunk
that saw them rise
and remain.
