The Willow


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The Cradle

Once upon a time, there was a tree, more exactly, a willow. A long crying, pending canopy, leafs touching the ground. An old leafy tree named willow. Its rugged trunk, long carved wrinkles through its peel, above the blooded sap. Its roots always looking for hide in the bank, dirt sandy shore of the river bed. It leans softly, casting a bleak shadow above the running waters. 

They cry for mercy, those roots, while digging, like a thousand fingers, for your lost body, wretched limbs, lost soul, as the willow itself looks for your spirit, there, amidst the never ending tides, the eye lashing yellow sky, sun fueled firmament.


The willow keeps there, it has been there for ages, carefully watching for our lives, as the tides come and go, day after day, morning before morning, nights without moon. Its leafs drop once and awhile, kissed by the wind, but it never looses them all, not until the great winter march stomps in its breath. 

The willow keeps on its feet, bold, the stream comes, the stream goes, fades away, glittering a million unsounded times. With it, the boats, wooden canoes filled with the living corpses, they float along the circling waves, swapping courses. One of them its mine, the other probably its yours, those are certainly theirs.

The ancient tree is the silent teller, leader of the self driven dreams, guardian of lost souls. There she waits, above the land, bellow the sky, side by side with the waters running through the muddy bank.

Devourer of thoughts, he was there long before time. Time is one of its many falling leafs, grayish, brown, orange, the colors of many winters that have embraced us, of so many that will come again, for us, undistinguished by the snowy seasons.   


Green leafs fall, hovering on the breeze, soft, so silky it reminds one of the crackle skins of a dead beauty in white. Dead but unburied, deceased but not decaying - The roots would like to have that tissues among them - fresh soul, devourer of ‘almas’, conceiver of destinies. 

Don’t be so lost, gather here, beneath the dirt, beneath the mud, between the worms. They are waiting for you to fall too, right after the summer breeze. Lets fall, altogether, as many times as we can, right into the voidless pitch that life is.


Life span its stretching downwards, in a process of auto combustion, imploding like a supernova, singularities, dark holes, where everything ends just to start again and again. Explosions pollinating the universe, drawing millions of ellipses, each one is only one of our days, too many nights ou there in the cold of the vastness dark.

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Heider Broisler

Impeccable! Very well-written.
Would that be a beautiful poetic prose?

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It’s a work in progress... Slowly to be revealed... Thanks!

Soul Seeker

Many monsoons have dropped and go, many tides have risen and dried in this river bed. Uncountable moons have rise and fall on the shallow horizon, the same line many bright suns have lived and millions of red stars died. 

The willow its always there. For how long, no one knows, not even the skies, the waters or the lands. Some wanderers say it’s been there since forever, some foretellers told it’ll be there until the end of days to come, foul days.

Who planted, who seeded him, the distortion in its body, the despair in its arms, the sadness in its eyes?

By cosmos natural order, a son should never die ahead of his father, a father should never been able to know how his son has died, or when he has to die. 

But, that lack of some patterns translates itself also as a natural order, the caos, the chance that brought us all here. And chance will take us throughout the thunderstorm until the very existencial plan. There we will transform in another vessel, or vessels, containers of the same substance that we are today, that we were yesterday. 

The main thing about life its its pulse to kill, to inflict auto destruction. We need to have that in mind, profoundly, to know that we are a simple piece in a puzzle of extensiveness. Extermination and resurrection, buried to bloom, graveyard its an homecoming.

Bloodless marionettes, strings cutting so deep, through the fleshless bones. Hear thy name on the shores of Time, oh hated one, hence thy son is the one who beholds your end, the one who holds your heritage in his trembling hands.

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Seasons of Mist


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