The quiet, tranquil river,
Always looking with keen,
Liquidly passive eyes,
Into the domain,
Of its own,
The silent, peaceful trees,
Never looking away with observant,
Furtively calm eyes,
Into the river,
Of its birth,
Its life, Its home.
But in this land of peace,
There is a threat.
One that will end that connection between
Being and entity,
Object and substance,
River and tree.
They come in their beings of destruction,
Riding on horses from the very depths
Of hell eternal.
Burning, pillaging, destroying…
But in the rage of battle,
But in the heat of massacre soon to come,
But in the darkness of despair,
A light, faint as a passing cloud,
Brushes the leaves of,
the lifeless saplings,
Lying dead on the ground,
And they awake, once more,
Proud beings of life, strength, proportion.
They rise from their everlasting slumber,
And feel around blindly,
Like small children,
Trying to hold onto the lie
They have left in them.
But the darkness strikes once again,
And the trees fall,
Into the river covered,
With tree sap, red,
Like blood, colouring the water,
In a tinge of death.
Again and again the darkness roams freely,
Mutilating the forest,
Destroying the wildlife, that
Prosper so much
In the trees that
Breath, live, conspire with everything and becomes
Everything, nothing, all things.
And they are struck down like bricks,
falling from a burning building.
And the river?
… The darkness does not know the river has a soul,
Has meaning in this world of despair,
The river runs by,
Watching the destruction of the earth,
Being filled with dead roots,
When the destroyers are done for the day,
And their fickle work is done,
The forest is silent
With wails of the dead,
And the humans alone,
In anticipation of the next day’s work,
Play with their thumbs.