When it rains, the trees shed their tears like leaves.
As if they understand, as if they feel.
And when the wind rises, they speak to us —
closing their eyes when in pain,
breathing in the scent of spring,
enduring the heat of summer.
I watch them and see my own face —
their branches have grown out of me,
woven into their tall, solemn bodies.
The trees are singing,
and only in the sunburned silence of midday
can their song be heard.
