They talk to me, I don't hear what they say.My soul is listening to itself, like Joan of Arc.Such voices sing!I've learned to direct them,So can summon flutes or harps,Bassons, at will. Sometimes I wake upTo find they've all been playing away fro agesAnd we've almost reached the end.My greetings, tall trunk, elastic branches,Your foliage of rust-specked green -Myseterious tree from which the birdWho sings the first note flies.But I ought to seize a pencil,Try to fix in words the kettledrum's low rumble,The woodwind's hunting calls,The showering springtime rush of bows, - I understand what's happening:My soul puts a finger to her lips - Be still! Be silent! And everything which makes death liveAnd complicates our life acquires a new,Transparent, sudden meaning,Obvious, like glass. And I am silent,With none of me held back,Absorbed in the funnul's mouth of morning noise.This is why it turns out, when we die,No word we wrote belonged to us,What what before we thought of as ourselvesIs peacefully revolving,Separate, beyond comparisons,Not containing us.Oh Joan, dear Joah, poor little Joan!Suppose your king were crowned, - So what? The magic oak tree sounds,A voice says something,But in a wrong sized shirt,You're bright with fire.