Smoke the tree. March is calling.

Honey bees gather

and mix the resurrection,

wax and honey.

Undecided between two borders,

with wine sent under seven greyhounds,

in the air,

the chosen one sleeps. my tree.

My tree.

The wind shook him, March rang.

How many powers there are, they bind together,

From the weight of my being to throw it at me,

from sleep, from the divine state.

Who’s on the job?

so much light over him?

Tears welled up in the buds.

Sun, sun, why did you wake him?


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