Can you smell the forest, my dear?
Can you hear the wind pick up its scent
it’s rushing urgency, a soft lament
for all that lived and died this day
For the living, because they inch
closer to death, and for the dead
because they grow old.
They grow old with the stones,
with the stars in the firmament
with the wine in the cabin
of the fisherman who lives
on the outskirts of this realm
unaware of the powers that rule
day and night, addition and negation
he merely sees
a bigger catch or a hungry dinner
and the wine thinks
only of getting older still.
All of this is the world you do not see
of the time that swallows itself
and gushes inwards towards the boundaries of existence
of the time of the tree-lords where
every new leaf is a different branch
and every branch is a dead end
the quantum world unravels
in their mind, a woodpecker
pecking away at their very hearts
till the burden exceeds strength,
till the branches come crashing down
in a certain savage storm.
But you, my tireless friend
Pursuing a direction
perpendicular to these realities
protected by my cold unfeeling back
as I try not to look you in the eye
and gaze at the ends of the world.