Reinchantment of the Myth of the Woods

"Those who're made to halt succession, abruptly—cut it short,
where must they flee then, where do they go?
When meaning melds as the chase demands,
opposed to threat that commands
in ways ulterior to the welfare of the prey.
The road crumbles, and as 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 never is a 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,
and the miniscule amount of light that it shines—
so, if 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 the 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 the 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 shalln't last—
under, the grass is exposed to sun, it turns pale in the heat
and dies, to crumble and wither into the air, 
and never descend to earth, never to meet the same fate again.
And my sympathy blatantly lies with my kind,
the forest soul shalln'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 a plant."

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, grow stoic, with frozen toes,
then wish for Autumn when I look at trees, and wish for it to kill them all.
Spring comes to stab me with flowers blooming on a 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
            Byangshar/Shabnam Sanzhi.