The Speaking Tree
I have tried and discarded most of man's toys available to me.
What remains is pain, listlessness, a stark desolation.
The covers of several books stare at me from my table.
One shows a tree, its long ramified branches shorn of all leaves.
It stands in dark desperation braving the onslaught of a powdery wind.
The wind wears a blanket of snow and marauds the land.
It shows a shadowy glimpse of other trees far away,
'Are we rooted so deep that we can never come together?,' I hear the tree speak in my hallucination.
The land ahead is white but not white enough to conceal the withering decay of its soul.
The inertia of my moribund existence is terrible.
I look and I do not want to see.
I hear and I do not want to listen.
I think and I do not want to live.
My memories and my dreams meet, clash and destroy each other.
There is nothing behind and nothing beyond.
The weary, frightening path that joins the past to the future wants to fall apart but goes on and on.
'O spring, O sun, where are you?'