Mysticism of the Tree
Trees are sacraments of peace.
They teach me the difficult art of patience,
firm in their vertical poise
facing wind and the uncountable whip of rain.
Its tranquility is traveled by silence
as leaves, like lips, only invite
you to watch another flower, inner and secret
which can’t be described in words.
They speak to spirit, not the ear.
The patient gouge, ever unveiling itself ascendant
by an effect of the religious attraction of light
that elevates it, over the years,
skyward; it seems to weigh on its branches
give us an exact sensation
of standing in front of a luxuriant
sacred receptacle. A tree’s calm illuminates.
It’s not by chance that, under your shadow, Buddha
had received the austere ray
of truth located beyond the traffic
of everything dripping identical pain:
the ultimate quietness, uncontaminated,
whose sign on earth is trees,
to follow the most serene threads
of God's holy leisure watching
like perfect repose in his eyes.
The tree is always vespertine
even as a morning splendor illumines:
whose thin, self-structured architecture
only finds a precise target
at dusk, when peace,
already ripened, expands its cups
where birds rest, becoming quiet.
[Original Spanish version.]
( Armando Rojas Guardia, El esplendor y la espera, Caracas, Editorial Pequeña Venecia, 2000 )