With wimpling wings,
while winking its eyes to weep,
in the downing dawn’s blue ink
of the springing spring,
and while swirling from the nature’s swing
to sway, or to rock
the night’s ring,
and to reach out without fallin’,
it leaves the garden forthwith,
right in the light to fight
the last winter’s wind.
If you were a spring without flowers,
probably then all my trees
would be lethargic.
If you were a wind coiling without leaves,
possibly all my trees would be already fallen,
and if you were a sky without its sun,
certainly no other tree could
germinate to grow from seed.
And I would not be able to exist any longer,
for I am the forest.
But in the snowy winter that would follow,
and in the churches with empty bells,
not ringing in the frost,
God would be still existent.
But you were my springing spring,
my whispering leafing wind
and my sunny sky.
And, in the winter,
in your absence,
I did not cease to love you while
craving for the melted snow,
craving for the blossomed trees,
craving for the ringing bells…
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