Twice I ended up in a forest.
Once, when I let myself go
with the other children
whose eyes spelled
mystery and age, the thin palm fronds,
the hands I had touched
and clothes soiled with mud,
a few songs.
But then I ended up in a forest …
The eyes I read
were closed to the sky of childhood now.
The hands I touched
carried sticks to strike with
and branches were rifles.
What happened to the muddy clothes?
Did the songs abandon us when anthems
advanced? Forest of childhood:
how did we come to you
free of care
to end up alone
seeking a spot between
the fingers for quarrel,
one for the trees?

Twice I entered a forest.
Once, when I let myself go
with the other children
and again, with myself.