There’s no edge to the pine forest.
We’re always within and without.
It’s neither a question nor test,
Because there’s no room here for doubt.
Its mixed scents purify the air
And its shades rarify the light.
I decide to touch each column,
Which soon urges me toward despair,
As though mine is a hand of blight
That renders the living bark numb.
Without navigable details,
One can get lost in woods — not these,
Whose needled floors delimit trails
Some, not all, follow with ease.
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