Leave me here, my good black friends—
even if I had been looking for it, I would not have found this place
which I discovered by accident.
I was led here by my primordial passion for searching
the dark twists of history,
by my eternal thirst for the sources of our universal ancestry
and by my hunger for the unhappy youth of humanity.
I was led here by my atavistic instinct
and its unmistakable whisper telling me that everything is the same,
although hidden in different forests and plants,
regardless of what they are called: baobab, oak, or birch.

Around the baobab gather all the villages of a people;
they circle it but cannot encompass it,
because buried upright in its trunk are the dead, conducting
a secret spiritual conversation with their descendants,
and no one has yet managed to encompass the dead.
Around the oak, young ivy twines and dances,
and its juices intoxicate the tree with eternal youth,
and no one has yet managed to dry up the juices of the ivy.
And around the birch, beautiful girls, like northern Signares,
tell stories of a love as wide as their land
and as deep as their soul,
and no one has yet managed to hear love stories to the end.

Leave me here, my good friends;
here my primordial passion has summoned me
to discover my archetype,
which is lost in the dark twists of time
but alive and strong as inspiration.
Leave me, leave me here. Here my providence has led me.