The weather cooled unexpectedly. A chain of Alpine peaks
And a hallucinogenic moon hanging all day long in the west.
You can feel it. It feels like the coin in your pocket.
The clerk slid it under the glass partition,
Together with a single from Ptuj to Ljubljana, via Pragersko.
The hole in the ticket tells you there has been a mistake.
Somehow, it should be possible to go back in time,
To erase yourself from the path you trod, 
To correct your direction, to start all over again, 
And you, lost in the sad monotony of the tracks, looking back,
Can only meet the space and time you just left with silence.
You lean your head against the rattling window. You close your eyes.

In the middle of your forehead a mark forms like a gum of resin 
Under the quick slash of a forester's axe on a twisted trunk of the oak.
Through the patches of snow and rotting leaves the woodsmen are coming.
Their bodies hard and tight with unbearable yearning for the treetops,
Which makes their lips crack and burn.
They come when the trees are bare and asleep,
And the bark has no inkling of the chain saw's hunger.
Amputation happens in frozen silence.
A child cuts into its cake. The smell of fuel is cut off,
And through the air the silent hiss of a falling giant.

When the roots wake, 
There will only be fading tyre-tracks
And trunks' black trail in the undergrowth to remind them
Of whom they once nourished, so they would be able to touch the sky.

Ptuj - Pragersko - Ljubljana.
Only if you leave between the stumps, you know what exile means.
Everywhere the weather has cooled unexpectedly.
Chain marks on the stacked trunks. Fool moon.