Now the forest comes in its turn.
It needs to be where silence lives.
Tree upon tree in strange groves.
They don’t do very well, because the floor is too hard.
So they make a sparse forest, one branch toward the east,
and one toward the west, until it looks like crosses.
A forest of crosses.
And the wind asks…Who’s resting here
in these deep graves? Extrat R. Jacobsen