My grandfather is telling them of the trees,

how they come into this world

like tongues of fire,

ready to consume and eclipse,

subsume, enrich and destroy

all things with their raw and

painful covetousness.

Then the drums, though,

and the howling of the wind,

that very same


who has taken his sister tonight.

My grandfather is telling them of the trees,

and I listen

to the sound of his voice

like the ticking of a clock

in rebellion of itself,

like the roaring of a river

I hear in the distance

as I forage through the mountains,


to glimpse him through the many trees,

that man whom wisdom has so extolled

as to render him




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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada