The fate of the tree

The fate of the tree knows
It reads the script of destiny
Though it dances with grace in the meadow
The fate of the tree is to burn…
That ancient tree am I, upon whom time
Has cast many springs and autumns
Empty-handed, feet in chains
I raised my head to the lofty sky
My night without stars, a grave-like night
In my heart, the glow of a distant star
Lightning at times took aim
At times hail lashed me with its whip
A crow built its nest upon my head
The sky grew dark like the crow’s wing
The nightingale that sang with my heart
Departed, leaving this nest empty
Gazelles vanished into the night of the plain
Alas for those who left, never to return
If I did not bloom and rise
I spread shade upon a few heads
The hand of the woodcutter descended
In the heart of the timber came the scent of smoke
I am the old stump dreaming of fire
Longing for my own flame