The woods

In my hand I found a volume of verse, a cloudstone I opened my fist and couldn't get the words at first and time passed until I heard the music it was all new and strange. I thought to put it away in a closet and build something with it later but these stones are so enormous they settle to earth like foundations as soon as you touch them don't smooth them, or they'll roll off. The woods already smell like Christmas, sometimes I gather pinecones as prizes on the way making something out of everything the frame of a mirror out of chips of cones. Much can be glimpsed through the pillars of spruce the road's end sensed, and the world accepted I do everything as though making a poem but how can I build without leaving things out the woods make no sound even for a poet Translated from the Finnish by Jascha Kessler and Kirsti Simonsuuri

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