I seem to share my story by trimming
the young oak’s roots and twigs.
I ask it not to despair and age prematurely
but be aware
that it will reach its destination
Even on a small tray,
in a handful of clay
It will enjoy a complete life and happiness
and its exclusiveness,
when it forgets it’s the offspring of the woods,
a giant born to drink the scarce juice of wilful rocks
conceived to be embraced by rotund spaces
and devoured where the horizon stretches.
I tell it not to frown and calm down
You and your self are here and you’re an oak.
Dismiss your strain to win that can provoke you to roar.
Don’t make an effort for you to soar
Just be yourself.
In my mind though
words fail me and slow
I might’ve been attending the presentation of my new book
somewhere in London Eye.
Instead I care for meaningless bonsai.
I awake from my nightmare pale and scared
and I am glad that I am not mad
to believe such stuff.
Translated by Lilit Bekaryan