Days go by in which I sneak
around my friend, the apple tree:
Has he quit on me, have I sinned?
My conscience is veiled, because knowingly
I have chopped up a tree:
As an ornament for three weeks, people
call it tradition. But what does the tree gained from this?
What do I have to do so that the one forgives me,
that connects me to the magical realm of earth?
Nothing that promises me comfort, no sign.
It is true, I have carried the dead tree
past my friend to the gathering place,
as the comfortable citizen of civilization does.
Will I ever be picked up again
by the tribe that grows roots in our earth?
Agonizingly long paths, miserably dark days,
until I finally dare to try again:
He welcomes me, invites me to linger,
my forehead against its rough trunk, to listen
to the thousand little throats that sing to me
of the meaning of holy life. Concert hall
by the wayside, denied to me for so long.
Now I stand beside my friend,
embrace him and feel his radiant form.
Refreshes my heart, which beats softly in unison,
every cell that exhales, inhales, refuels itself.
Our friendship is truly renewed,
my narrow mind has forgiven me, for at one
my soul was with the tree the whole time:
Wondered why I was thwarting me so much
in the path of life. We are reunited,
because my head finally fell silent.