14. Branques


We become again
branches of the same
oak woods.
               New flowers
don't grow there.
                        The silent
ivy deadens all the rustle
of footsteps.
                 In there, the sun
scarcely penetrates.
                            In the winter, you are
very cold and don't know anymore
how to get warm again.
The leaves mingle to one another
          We await the woodman's
axe, without fear.

(Versió de Salvador Pila)