The land I walk on is itself talking,
Maddened by illusionary mystifying;
This is why, I keep denying
Dreams and reality.
Then, there’s a repeating vision
Of a garden having no age, no season,
Existing for a tree by reason
To name it: In memory.
What a dream tree is that, alas!
One shall build around it a glassen palace;
Its beauty holds sweet malice,
Isn’t it itself the tree of Eden,
Seducing and then misleading Adam;
Boiling the blood like opium,
Heavenly hellish adultery.
Its shade is ever calming,
Even if it’s not existing, it’s charming;
A Tree of daily harming,