Like a drunken old man,
The tree sways to the December breeze,
Intoxication of age, alcohol in one,
The other with the spirit of the air,
A boozy synchronism!
The old man and the tree,
Winy hearts and the swings.
Legs unsteady; walked too much,
The tree too, does it
sillily in the syrupy cold,
Veins and vegetations drunk!
Synchronicity involves two more elements:
A caterpillar among the leaves,
Clutching like the grandson
in the grandpa’s fragile, shaky arms,
And so the swaying moments go on,
The tree and the old man gyrate,
The infant, the caterpillar hold.
Really gentle is the breeze,
Makes not noise among the leaves,
Soufflés inside the body old,
Gentle and feeble same,
Very calm and noiseless!
Some leaves now and then
break off and fall serenely;
A sylvan goddess plucking them,
Similarly, the likes of the old man,
Full with age, go heavenwards,
The leaves around the caterpillar’s,
The old men around the boy’s,
Calmly fall one by one,
But they hold on,
The caterpillar and the child.
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