If we are trees,
And every leaf is a single pleasure,
that we have received from life,
Then who is he,
that stands there naked, leafless,
Like a cold tree in the winter,
With his branches stretching desperately
For the heavens?
And if I were a tree,
and my leaves lost their colour,
Would my pleasures fade
And then free-fall slowly back to earth?
Or would they be comforted by a wind,
that would carry them so far beyond,
That everything else made sense.
