the woods in gothenburg are burning
they have set fire to themselves. a floor
of dry roots, twigs, and a green leaf
has moved itself to focus the sun. the people
of gothenburg are standing on the streets.
they are peering from their juliet balconies
at the trees whose heads are catching flame,
whose sleeping has turned to roaring, who
are welcoming the wind with their bodies.
the nests of the birds are firing, the birds
are red embers stinging. each tree is waiting
in turn to be set alight, to be given anger
and freedom. the woods in gothenburg,
on the hill at johanneberg and by the water-tower
are moving. they are done with all the piety
of trees which is the piety of people. they
have grown braver than us, have stood
unnoticed for too long, they have given
too much for too long and now they have taken
a match to their children. they are dancing
over the hills. the woods are taking
flight. they are lifting their spirits up
between buildings. they are sending
what is left of themselves piece by piece
into the sky like a bright burning colony of bees.