And I write and I write and I write.
Then I write and I chant my verses, and my views, and the thoughts.
Like buds, from the tree of my soul, becoming leaves, glowing green, then becoming yellow and then falling.

Wind comes, and they fly,
unseen they rustle, unheard.
Is this important, or not?

No, it isn’t, yes, it is,
yet no, it is not,
yet, it is.

The sap of my heart will never stop them living,
blossoming every season passing season,
new snowdrops, and lilies, and shamrock leaves
and deep sorrow willow branches.

No, not important,
yes important,
The tree sees the other trees
and smiles.