Roots

The heart brims with nectar,
while steady eyes watch
as the great tree slowly descends,
crossing mountains
no one may surpass.
 
Weariness spreads across the mind—
the strength to walk remains,
but not the strength to think.
 
The heart, scented with lemon,
fills and overflows
as the tree lowers itself,
slowly, slowly,
into the earth’s deep silence.
 
Down into the soil it goes,
drawing sap upward into the chest,
where the frail heart aches with blood,
or breaks into a stream of tears.
 
Before thought can gather,
the gaze rises
to a sky lit in red and blue,
its light playing with a weary mind.
 
Yet the body finds again
its will to move.
 
The roots fall into gravel,
searching the soft silt,
and the heart, in its longing,
fails, again and again—
throughout a whole life,
unceasingly.