Yes! I admit!
In th ewinter of the year X
I killed the Past
in hrrible pains.
I remember:
I took th eaxe
from my soul
(I'd never known before
about its being there)
and I struck.
I was laughing in cry when I struck
I was crying in laugh whern I struck
thew woods inside myself,
their birds,
their song
inside myself.
Once.
And again.
And again.

Yes! I admit!
I had to hide myself.
Neither for the fear of the desert
in which I found myself,
but from these very years
I had to hide myself.
It was the time between crime and punishment
that I needed.

I needed that time:
tens of springs
flowing into as many summers
and as many autumns
wth no winter after them.
I needed that time
to let another past grow
inside myself: my own past
with some other trees: my own trees
and some other birds: my own birds.
I admit.
Wes! I admit!

Now, you may condemn me!
Punish me!
For a life-time!
Even this is not enaugh
to let one's sog grow
inside oneself,
the song of the woods,
of th etrees
and the birds.
Let those who have to put me inchains
come quicker.
Let them come.