Song of Dry Orange Tree

Woodsman,

chop down my shadow.

Free me from the torture

of not bearing fruit.

Why was I born among mirrors?

Around me day dances

and night copies me

onto her stars.

I want to live blind to myself.

And I’ll dream

that ants and burrs

are my leaves and my birds.

Woodsman,

chop down my shadow.

Free me from the torture

of not bearing fruit.
LORCA