I will read a prose piece--
not from this book, but written shortly afterwards,
which has something of the same ideas and themes.
So you will meet another old hut there, or rather, hut
where only the foundation stones remain.
It's also from the island.
Now, this is a prose piece translated by Robin Fulton
called "The Forest Clearing."
Right in the middle of the forest
there is an unexpected clearing, which you can come upon
only if you have lost your way.
The clearing is shut in by a forest that is choking itself--
black stems with the ashy bird stubble of lichen.
The trees are screwed tightly together
and are dead right up to the tops where
a few solitary green twigs touch the light.
Beneath them, shadow-- brooding and shadow
and the swamp growing.
But in the open space, the grass is strangely green and living.
There are big stones lying here as if they had been arranged.
They must be the foundation stones of a house,
but I could be wrong.
Who lived here?
No one has any information about that.
The names exist somewhere in archives that no one opens.
It is only archives that stay young.
The old tradition has died, and with it the memories.
The gypsy people remember, but those who
have learned to write, forget.
Note down and forget.
The old hut murmurs with voices.
It is the center of the world.
But the inhabitants die or move out.
The chronicle breaks off, desolate for many years,
and the hut becomes a sphinx.
At last, everything is gone except the foundation stones.
Somehow I've been here before, but now I must go.
I dive in among the thickets.
You can only push yourself through with one step forward
and two to the side, like a chess knight.
Bit by bit, it thins out and lightens.
My steps get longer.
A footpath sneaks towards me.
I'm back in the communications network.
The humming electricity poles, the beetle
is sitting in the sun.
Beneath its shining wing covers its proper wings
are folded up, ingeniously, like a parachute
packed by an expert.