Landscape without Song
Blue sky.
Yellow field.
Blue mountain.
Yellow field.
Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.
One lone
olive
tree.
Song of the Dry Orange Tree
to Carmen Morales
Woodsman,
chop down my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of not bearing fruit.
Why was I born among mirrors?
Around me day dances
and night copies me
onto her stars.
I want to live blind to myself.
And I’ll dream
that ants and burrs
are my leaves and my birds.
Woodsman,
chop down my shadow.
Free me from the torture
of not bearing fruit.
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