Cup your hands to draw up memory of the dead names dried grain again the forest: a charred cloud forehead branded by black light and a thousand lids pressed tightly on motionless eyeballs a tree and the air broken betrayed faith of empty shelters That other forest is for us is for you the dead also ask for fairy tales for a handful of herbs water of memories therefore by needles by rustling and faint threads of fragrances— no matter that a branch stops you a shadow leads you through winding passages— you will find and open our Ardennes Forest – Zbigniew Herbert