WEBVTT

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I will read a prose piece--

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not from this book, but
written shortly afterwards,

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which has something of
the same ideas and themes.

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So you will meet another old
hut there, or rather, hut

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where only the
foundation stones remain.

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It's also from the island.

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Now, this is a prose piece
translated by Robin Fulton

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called "The Forest Clearing."

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Right in the middle
of the forest

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there is an unexpected clearing,
which you can come upon

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only if you have lost your way.

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The clearing is shut in by a
forest that is choking itself--

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black stems with the ashy
bird stubble of lichen.

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The trees are screwed
tightly together

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and are dead right
up to the tops where

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a few solitary green
twigs touch the light.

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Beneath them, shadow--
brooding and shadow

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and the swamp growing.

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But in the open space, the grass
is strangely green and living.

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There are big stones lying here
as if they had been arranged.

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They must be the foundation
stones of a house,

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but I could be wrong.

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Who lived here?

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No one has any
information about that.

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The names exist somewhere in
archives that no one opens.

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It is only archives
that stay young.

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The old tradition has died,
and with it the memories.

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The gypsy people
remember, but those who

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have learned to write, forget.

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Note down and forget.

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The old hut murmurs with voices.

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It is the center of the world.

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But the inhabitants
die or move out.

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The chronicle breaks off,
desolate for many years,

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and the hut becomes a sphinx.

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At last, everything is gone
except the foundation stones.

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Somehow I've been here
before, but now I must go.

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I dive in among the thickets.

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You can only push yourself
through with one step forward

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and two to the side,
like a chess knight.

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Bit by bit, it thins
out and lightens.

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My steps get longer.

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A footpath sneaks towards me.

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I'm back in the
communications network.

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The humming electricity
poles, the beetle

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is sitting in the sun.

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Beneath its shining wing
covers its proper wings

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are folded up, ingeniously,
like a parachute

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packed by an expert.

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