Story

The downpour writes on my leaf its hurried, heavy words. My leaf, severed from the branch, falls to the ground. Now the pens of muddy heels stamp, like engravers, their own words on the page of the leaf. The wheels of tanks are the next writer. My leaf! My leaf! You are filled with so many different tales! The words of events, now, have set a distance between your beginning and your end. Every narrator narrating my end! Without seeing this fragile moment of beginning when I am rolling — without sound, without word — into your embrace under the veil of earth...