Its silence promises much.
A sprinkling seems enough, it beckons aerially,
for a many-eyed calm to take root.
It knows what it needs in order to exist.
Buried in its nature
it doesn’t grow taller for someone else
it doesn’t lower with the first blow of comfort.
What has it to do with the rest of us?
In its shadow the humblest suppliant
passes for high-minded.
Inhumanly speechless, it houses a totemic quietude.
And when suddenly it waves like glory
its every nod shows aloofness.
Why is it doing this to me?
Must I live muted again, on promises?
Long ago Solomos* had said:
“Whoever has mysteries
to solve suffers from deliriums.”
It’s time for some light.
Your trunk, O tree, a totally impudent stimulus.
Leafage, roots, branches, pure deception.
regardless if in the mind comes
the “queen of the forest”,
the “matron of wild beauty”,
Papadiamantis’** royal oak,
all in vain your making out to be a diamond.
And however much you inflame imagination
every moment you merely erect the impending fall.
You neither fool me nor foster me with silence.
Because without a single word how am I to breathe.
Talk to me just for once, damn it! Why do you keep looking at me?
A man am I, I live on words.
And you, abhorrent tree,
you have me choking in oxygen.
*Dionysios Solomos (1798-1857): Leading Greek poet.
**Alexandros Papadiamantis (1851-1911): Influential Greek novelist, short story writer and poet.