Thank you for the chestnuts –
this year I couldn't find time to pick them up.
Once the tree stood in the middle
of the garden before it was cut down.
Straight as an ascetic
he stared at the winter forecast.
Yesterday he crossed the threshold again
and shook with his treetop.
its rough trunk talks
how among the thorns something is hidden.
He swung me back in the falls,
when it was possible to believe
that we won't burn ourselves
when the burnt shell acres
brought a smile.
Nowadays it's a different forest from
the one we whistled in
to walk from one glade to another.
Long paths are covered and evening
rises with another thoughts.
However, I walk on.
If I take a break,
I hear stories again about lumberjacks
and someone who is looking for an ax –
together with them the tree is disappearing in a cold.
Thank you for the tasty chestnuts,
but I would prefer to share it with you.