Forest

There are whitish trunks in that forest
They suddenly emerged from the darkness.
The root came out of the ground by the root,
Like the hands of grave dwellers.
Under the cover of bright fiery foliage
Giants lived, dwarfs and lions,
And fishermen have seen footprints in the sand
A six-fingered human hand.
The path has never led here
The Peer of France or the Round Table,
And the robber did not nest here in the bushes,
And the monk did not dig the caves —
Only once from here on a stormy evening
A woman with a cat's head came out,
But in a crown of cast silver,
And sighed and moaned until morning,
And she died a quiet death at dawn,
Before he gave her communion to the cure.
It was, it was in those years,
Of which there is no trace left.
It was, it was in that country,
Which you can't even dream about in a dream.
I came up with this looking at your
Braids — rings of a flaming snake,
At your greenish eyes,
Like a Persian sick turquoise.
Maybe that forest is your soul,
Maybe that forest is my love,
Or maybe when we die,
We're going to that forest together.