The muddied leaves grow sluggish, no one ever remembered her— not then, not ever. And they drown in the wet, rain-soaked earth, their bones never drying, not even beneath the warmth of a spring or summer sun. Never drying. The leaves are brown, fallen to their decay, and perish freely as they fall, after crashing from beneath their branches. But before that, they cry out to the wind, in their desperate attempt to escape that deceitful soil— that muddy earth. In these puddles now the leaves beg, floating in this innocent filth that awakens every morning, since that very first morning— when these old trunks grew beards, and endless patience, as they died more than they lived, and more than they lived, they died. What misfortune, the fate of these tall sticks that always dwelt in shadow— in shadow’s shadow— in the light of shadow, they shone. Some forgotten, heartless soul wished to make them disappear there, and so they were planted alive, in mud, so their roots might drown in the same leaves that drowned them. Unwittingly, the sowing of the seed was done— unwittingly. Thus, almost dead at birth, the shoots grew, one day, in some forgotten winter season— and thus, they died as well.
