My friend the tree, I confide in my friend, he's the only one who can help me find my way back. My friend the tree, rooted in the earth, its crown in the clouds, it knows everything about our everything, and I try not to be deaf or blind to its permanence. His false permanence, for he too in the great waltz of the living knows death. He's so alive, my friend, the benevolent king, without whom I'd be nothing. My friend, thanks to him, I'm still standing, animated by a few hopes, the hope of finally hearing him, my friend.