Oh, look at that strange, tilted tree,
The way it bends across the creek,
Can you maybe not to love it,
Not to seek your partner in it?
No golden sun shines trough the old branches,
Silent are the birds, they all used to sing,
Has no more fruits, no flowers either,
Yet it stands, the wise man of sunset,
Like one who wonders on such evening,
Sinks in the secret of infinity
And gently leans with all of his body,
Wherever his soul pulls him without it...
1916
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
