Stout, green, brown

bearing needles or leaves

the sensation

of gnarled branches

against my hands


Ah, the joy of climbing!

Not as an athlete

rather as a friend

of these rooted giants


Finally, a bit sorehanded

reaching the crown

once more sitting in the cradle



My mother, the soft breeze

rocks me gently

back and forth


And I overlook:

The suburb

These well-known streets

In one of those houses

do I belong

Twelve flats and four floors

accomodating common people


In the horizon

under this hill;

neon lights and cinemas


Here I sit still

in the cradle,

rocked gently back and forth

by my mother, the breeze