In the forests, lost, I cut a dark stick

In the forests, lost, I cut a dark stick and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips: perhaps it was the voice of crying rain, a broken bell, or a torn heart.

Something that from so far away seemed seriously hidden to me, covered by the earth, a cry deafened by immense autumns, by the darkness of the leaves, humid and ajar.

But there, waking from the dreams of the forest, the hazel branch sung below my mouth and its roaming odor climbed to my view as if the roots which I had abandoned, the land lost with my childhood, suddenly came searching for me, and I stopped, wounded by the wandering aroma.