Each pine at dusk
lodges the bird
of its voice
perpendicular and still
the forest
indifferent to history
tearless as stone
repeats
in tremulous excitement
the ancient story
of the sun going down.
- John Berger from “And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos”
New Yorker – Postscript: John Berger, 1926 – 2017: http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/postscript-john-berger-1926-2017
