The Poplar

From within the fire a smoke from the poplar's heart escapes to the distant space that calls it the poplar's soul! Poplar! The pains of the axe are left behind the fears of burning are left behind. Mingled with the white clouds, the poplar laughs with its green gaze it looks at the distant earth: rivers wind they pass along the stony borders all of them pour into one ocean. Seeds strive they come out beside the barbed wires they grow all of them, without doubt, toward one sun. In the prehistoric museum on the floor is a platform full of broken axe handles useless barbed wire rusted...