Old tree, II

Poem By Francesc Parcerisas

What thrived in the tree still lingers,
for everything that was remains.
Rather like the resting hand
that murmurs: come.
Because the hand is tantamount
to the man himself: tree and thought
that craves and seeks
to survive in you,
for if you contemplate being, you exist,
and if you ponder
the notion of life's emptiness
you become emptiness.
The hand approaches
to reward me with certainty,
almost as if desire and being
collected on our lips,
where, we are, in truth, the tree.
Where I am your bark,
and you, the emptiness that burns me.

Translated by Cyrus Cassells

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