Reinchantment of the Myth of the Woods

"Those who're made to halt succession, abruptly—cut short,
where must they flee then, where must they go?
When meaning melds as the chase demands,
inline with threat that commands,
in ways ulterior to the welfare of the prey.
The road crumbles, and plague enters the runner’s feet,
making way for dogs to smell, and for the predators to see,
and follow into the woods that appear on the horizon."

In the forest, there is never day, but a perpetual evening shade to say:
the canopies keep plants of the lower-demeanor sheltered, 
under control, and at-bay.
They are then rustled, along with mud and water; the un-welcomed intruder
brings along the remnants of civilisation,
and memory of the moment when human declared freedom 
from the perpetual forest shade,
with a sickle to manage grass, and an axe to bring down the perpetual shade.

A distant cry! 
“An artillery’s on its way!” Of predators of the night,
fending off the canopy from its demise.
Keeping the moon out of regard—dismissing for all it stands,
the miniscule amount of light that it shines, borrowed from the sun. 
It's not to be put in shackles, thrown into disregard,
for those who've seen the fury of the fiery projectile,
know better than to tempt the deity of the dark.

The prey walks further into the woods, and further lights the assault
of the primordial spirit that birthed all friends and foes,
and those that are denounced, placed at the bottom of pyramid, 
to be consumed—as mere means to some end,
deemed as the absolute for all living, breathing matter
that has come to rise from it,
that dries itself on the summer terrain, or bathes in the sea of salt.
Then I simply drown, nothing lasts, and nothing matters as much;
what remains is the urge to breathe, and fear, if it was to subside.

"The humble being, so eager to protest, brings forth cruelty
and assault in the process—the trees are made to shed, the canopies shan’t last—
under, the grass is exposed to sun, it turns pale in the heat
and dies; it crumbles and withers into the air, 
never to descend to earth, never to meet the same fate again.
And my sympathy blatantly lies with my kind,
the forest soul shan’t have a face, but it has certainly lived a forest life:
being upright through the wind, the storm, the rain,
then die in dry-winter, or the cruel heat of summer.”
I was unmistakably protected by the convention of the forest shade.

Summer boasted long days, short nights—brief plights.
Rain comes to fall in plains, and flood the hilly-terrain.
In Winter I embrace the cold, inherit plague—frozen toes.
I wish for Autumn when I look at the trees, and wish for it to kill them all.
Spring comes to stab me with life blooming on the dead-tree branch
which lies outside the window through which I stare away, without restraint,
into the world.

"Fall, tree, in Spring, upon me, on the house that I reside..."

            26th November 2025 (edited: 18th December 2025)
            Byangshar/Shabnam Sanzhi.