Sometimes, when we are trapped by thoughts and we can't say what we feel, we let our feet to do the talk as them take us into the birch forest where the trees complain with small wooden creaks when a gust of wind choose to pass by.

Under many trees and many shadows
one goes for a sad and solitary walk,
with lovers passing, looking at each other,
not a whisper, they don't need to talk.

The rain is falling in hushed tones,
with a voice singing wet and cold;
shining lines carved on my face,
by the hand of a forest's troll.

Through a gap, up on the tree's top,
a finger of light is touching a rock,
like pointing to a sorrowful heart which
try to hide in the shadow from the sun.

We could be immovable and perhaps, gray,
hard, and untouched like that stone,
and if we never give back a feeling...
we will be not a flower, just a thorn.

Tree tops becoming green waves of a sea
storming around with all its powers,
we try to escape the drowning feeling
from leaves transformed in green waters.

Later, much later, we leave the woods,
and the shadows, and the saddest walk,
we went out like shipwreck's survivors,
hearing from our steps a happy sound.

The sadness was left behind.