Ailim the Pine
must always find its own home.
A pine planted by human hand
can remain sad, longing and alone.
During our growing we fulfil
our own sense of belonging,
our own feelings of being at home.
That personal sanctuary, our sacred seat
where every inner particle become its most complete.
Where our vision and performance becomes its best;
End of a journey where we have earned our rest.
And then, for no reason we can account for,
we carry a dread of a moment
when all of the good moments are gone.
I carried that once, that dread,
and turning west
I saw pines against a whitening sky;
Their dark pointed heads against a quiet sky.
There was peace at that moment,
I laughed,
and I was reminded that good moments do not go away.
Ailim the pine, lush in all seasons,
allows birds to perch to rest, sing and play.
No angst when they land, no reason;
no pining for their return, when they fly away.
In a heart of a pine tree
there is no apprehension,
no wish to fall,
no wish to sleep and awaken.
Tree groves were the first temples.
Learning the trees of the earth was simple
as they wrote poems upon the sky.
Later we cut them down, turn them into paper,
and onto them compose our beliefs,
create archives of our emptiness,
and doodle our questions to solve our griefs.
As I attempted to translate this wonder into
a poem of pines, onto paper, for you,
A wind blew and excited them
into waving, swinging and swirling,
uniting them into glorious enthusiasm
of holy roller worship that chants and sing.
And then the trees became silent,
I listened quietly, closely,
to discover that their songs never cease.
Songs for discovery, songs for inner peace.
Every cell within every pine is throbbing,
with every fibre resonating a living music,
droning and humming like harp strings,
while their incense enchants their magic.
No wonder pine groves,
and other tree groves,
were the first temples,
before they were cut down.
And hewn into cathedrals and churches,
that lures people further away
from the light of their guides
that we are told lead us astray.
Ailim the pines, and their brethren trees,
see many suns rise and set,
many seasons come and go,
and many people pass by into silence.
By now we may well wonder what
"Ogma's Tale Of The Trees" could really be for us.
If trees had tongues they would tell us, instead of me.
if only we had ears fine enough to listen and trust.
Between every two pines is a doorway
hinged to our life and when it has swung
open there is no reason to stay;
silent, hidden and bound on the day
when we discover trees have tongues .
Sing away pine scented trees!
Awaken my soul to serve with ease.
to read an explanation of this story poem please click here