The Holm tree pinned me down,
Its twigs and leaves like tears
Streaking my face
And the pain, like the whole world
On top of me, only a Holm tree.
And I listened overseas to the pulp
Plantations, the dying cry of conifers.
I felt too late that sickly despair,
A vibrant sense of vengeance in the air.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem