12) The Forest

The Forest

Tear out my tongue: my hands will remain
to praise this insulated Being.
It becomes I completely and by it I am taken,
and from my forehead your walls will arise,

where I see clearly the mountains to the clouds rise.
I want with the glow stretched
the poem never written in blue paint,
sharp in all the branched skies.

For here is the entrance to the limitless;
here the world became a child for the second time
of the drawn white and black lot.

Enter thou, who art blind and misled!
When once in dreams by God the lofty call was loud:
the trees will be the steps to until he arrives.