Translation by Beena Kamlani
Edge of the forest
I step over the edge of the forest. I'm stepping into the forest and I'm stepping out of it. I'm trespassing its border to immediately turn back, as if nothing has happened. I'm injuring the forest by perforating its border; and it is important that I do so. For my step sews the forest to the not-forest, which I leave in order to return.
As the wind that passes over the fields still balloons in my
jacket, a dew-moistened branch of a birch-tree brushes across my face, and as
acorns crack under my feet I see the lark, high up between the fraying clouds.
But then again I'm surrounded by the dark of the forest and I have to go back.
So I turn around and pierce the borders. I keep forest and not-forest together,
for they belong together. Without the forest there would be nothing of the not-forest
left, and it would hardly be different if one crossed out anything of the forest.
Who would be capable of distinguishing them from one another, yes, recognize
them at all, if they weren't separated by a border?
At the forest's edge, branches reach out for the wind and between the roots of the trees the horsetail grows rampant. It's here that I catch the song of the lark and the fragrance of resin.