Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig 
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips: 
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying, 
a cracked bell, or a torn heart. 
 

Something from far off it seemed 
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth, 
a shout muffled by huge autumns, 
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves. 
 

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig 
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance 
climbed up through my conscious mind 
 

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind 
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood--- 
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.