A virgin forest was the heart, like new leaf hope grew on plants, dancing in the rain that washed the trees of life.

The windows of childhood never ran out breeze, the rivers never ran dry,  the sky spread as far as eyes, like a giant blue umbrella.

Thoughts like kite soared in open spaces. Days and nights passed like snails of the forest.A zillion breath of time, melted into the green box of dreams.

Now memory is a shadow floating in those barren lands, dust and ashes grows on the burnt branches that survived the fire, sometimes the eagles come looking for the trees, they tell tales of the forest to the stones.
Ghosts roam in the corridors that highways sold us, the bed of bones that crack under the weight of dreams reminds us of the dry leaves, the cacophony that drowns this graveyard strangled the lullabies of the night angles.

Yet  I go looking for that green box sometimes and return  with stones in hand.

They say life can grow under stones. I  Only wish if worms could fly.