in the verdant infinity of generations
of the graceful bamboo
the subtle dance of the so many slender bodies
that point and try to reach
the blue and resplendent firmament
stirs your dormant soul
a path: thick carpet millenniums old
of faded leaves, quasi white
immobile phantasms that once were
fresh arms of spring
greet with their whispers
and always meek since birth
adapt to the steps of the quiet passers-by
who slowly and lightly fly
listening to the discreet serenade
of murmurs and gentle whistles
reverberating in this world
where man is in transit
and is no more than a traveler
keeper of nothing
the golden messengers of the sun
penetrate the green density of the vigilant leaves
for a few seconds
joyful, suspended in the air
exquisite solar scintillations
then fall
and hide in the fossils of the fallen leaves
and the passers-by stay hushed
seizing the secrets
the leaves whisper as they tremble
but too much they can not linger
they can not remain
they must walk on
or if they have learned
fly
through this ancient forest
until hearing
the undulating song of a distant river
that will bring them
to other forests
and then
to other rivers
and thus the bamboos continue
with their serenade and dance
in their world where man
is keeper of nothing, nothing
