The Trees

these days, received friends emails
telling me about the weather in Hong Kong
they said, raining raining raining...
keep them home, office, and shopping mall...

i replied, about the weather here
not much sunshine in these several days
the moisture from the sea
brought by wind, air turns white
i find a chance to take photo for Montejo's poem

The Trees by Eugenio Montejo

The trees speak so little, you know.

They spend their entire life meditating

and moving their branches.

Just look at them closely in autumn
as they seek each other out in public places:

only the oldest attempt some conversation,

the ones that share clouds and birds,

but their voice gets lost in the leaves

and so little filers down to us, nothing really.

It's difficult to fill the shortest book

with the thoughts of trees.

Everything in them is vague, fragmented.

Today. for instance, on the way to my house
hearing a black thrush shriek,

the last cry of one who won't reach another summer,
i realized that in his voice a tree was speaking,

one of so many.

but I dont know what to do with this sharp deep sound,

I dont know in what type of script

I could ser it down.