Walloon moorlands

So much deep sadness

seized my heart on the desolate moors

when I sat down weary among the firs, unloading

the weight of the kilometres

while the west wind growled.

I had left the pretty woods.

The squirrels stayed there.

My pipe tried to make clouds of smoke

in the sky

which stubbornly stayed blue.

I murmured no secret except an enigmatic song

which I confided to the peat bog.

Smelling of honey, the heather

was attracting the bees,

and my aching feet

trod bilberries and whortleberries.

Tenderly she is married

North!

There life twists

in trees that are strong

and gnarled.

There life bites

bitter death

with greedy teeth,

when the wind howls.