I have so much anger, so much pain;
There is stress welling up inside my brain.
Then I caught the oak on the hill yonder:
Prying open my third eye, my thoughts stop to wander.
I stare entranced in its trunk and limbs,
Chanting in my head a repetitive hymn.
A squirrel looks too, we see into its past:
Prying open my third eye, my troubles go fast.
Tempests and draughts tested this oak’s strength,
Bud did it no harm as it gained in length.
I’m weakened by words – the oak doesn’t care:
Prying open my third eye, now I feel no despair.