By Julia Chobanyan
A chaotic assembly of green leaves
colour the air with the inimitable scent of morning.
Stones so smooth
that their marrow pale shells
disguise years of hard toil.
The gentle stream once endured
against the rough surface of stubborn rocks.
The trees, waltzing with the wind,
sway almost sentient and omniscient.
If you listen closely,
they have a thousand tales to tell
of lovers come and gone,
carved initials, their only proof.
A mighty core turned inside out,
unearthed to consume meagre mortals.
Those untamed and ignorant souls
succumb to the effortless beauty of the soil.
Mountains that witnessed the fall of countless empires
now point and laugh at the self-destruction in human
We are pawns in a grander scheme
with egos large enough to sustain the illusion
that we can be Kings.
All that transcends my finite existence,
at once washed away my all-consuming pursuit of indulgence.
And the fragile glass from which I sucked
the sweet nectar of life
shattered into a spectrum of shards,
unfamiliar and too sharp to handle.
To be found would be a tragedy if I were to get lost
in this tender and precious wilderness,
not yet ruined by the touch of man.
An echo intrudes my mind, asking: Who wrote this grand symphony? For what purpose?
what separates man from mechanical ants If not our ability to create,
and our capacity to love? With no reply, the symphony forces me to dance
like a puppet with strings invisible.
I take one more sip of morning. It tastes so good.