Thursday, November 23, 2023

Pine Forest (Gustav Klimt), Sonnet #616






















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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