Does the duck know where the lake is?

… Inside me lives a scandalous guy, a gnome. I would long for my whole life to be pirouettes. To acrobat outside reason and law, to violate schedules and fertilize eggs, to be indifferent to the consequences of my actions – as if those who measure and remeasure them come up with no clue? Do they escape the randomness and the transience of existence? To feel the moments like notes, to obey my only inner rhythm… Inside me, that little boy who constantly caused damage, who stuck his tongue out at everyone, whose world was a blank sheet of paper, sometimes he painted it, sometimes he scribbled on it, sometimes he set it on fire...

I admire those who set off for the pavilion and find themselves on the other side of the world. Those who have no land or homeland, the bird-people. I am a tree. Does a bird become a tree, a bird a tree? As a tree, what can you hope for?

To refresh those who rest in your shade. May the birds prefer you, to build their nests. May the squirrels and foxes enjoy your fruits. And above all, when the wind rises, may your foliage swell like the sails of a ship, even though your roots keep you in the same place. May the air become music and may your music reach where you will never be. “The tree sings again…” they say.