A group of thieves found a thriving tree
So they dug it up, then all went to see

The tree had grown from roots of pain
So they were confused on why this tree was sane

Then one realized the tree was made from healing
The guilt it hid over the years was now revealing

The tree started to wilt, slowly dying
They heard the tree’s screams, even its crying

For the tree hid everything to protect its health
It was just not happy for its life and wealth

The thieves felt bad and ran away
Even if the tree would still decay

They knew that tree was once their own
The one that they had used and thrown

But they were not thieves of objects, even if they could
They were the thieves if my innocent childhood

i step out of the warzone.
leaving the worries and anticipation behind,
melancholia washed off by the waves of excitement.
to the forest i go, to the shadows of bulbous trees i hide.
away from reality, away from society,
away from the rockets and away from the bullets.

the lead in my heart dissipates.
in the branches of evergreen spruce –
my horrors and sins, caught, tangled, and trapped in wooden reach.
as i venture into the deepest secrets of these lowly woods,
carrying with me a camera, so heavy and so light –
capturing the whispers and movements of life.

this has been my tradition in years past.
when i am hanging by the thread and hope seems lost,
i go to my haven where life flows freely.
there i find the importance, the mysteries,
the magnitudes of this world – all things i have been ignorant of.
looking above to the heavens,

sheltered by the canopies of multitudes of green.
the damp, filthy earth lingers.
i am wrapped, masked, and bandaged in maternal care.
the mourns of yesterday silenced.
the wounds of yesterday deteriorates,
decays with the fallen foliage,

that gives life to something new –
these years have been a collection of videos, photos, and poems.
a trek to the woods away from the war of the extremes –
full of short-lived happiness followed by long days of sadness,
like a short summer thrill, interrupted quickly by winter’s chill –
so abrupt and so rude.

the song of the birds and the ancient branches stir joy in my heart.
the mosquitos cherishing every bit of fresh blood –
reminding me that i am alive – and very well appreciated –
a living sacrifice to aid in long winter days ahead.
now, that i am reminded of the impending cold – all this colour and life
will soon fade away and under the roof of war i take shelter yet again.

Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.

When judging the tree by its fruits
The bamboo proponent imputes
             That this grass’s great power
             Lies not with its flower
But deep in its rhizomes and roots

Between the blacks of bending trees
I meet the moon at in betweens
I glimpse her glories, wild and worn
Aglow atop a stirring storm

Oh breathing birches blown about
Beneath her silver silence
Beyond the fields I farthest see
Along the dark horizon

There the hymns of heavy winds
Beyond the blown and gloomy leas
Where ghostly grass and rushing reeds
Dance darkly 'round my falling feet

powerless scream
and big old trees
invaded my home

you live in my soul.

the rent that you pay,
it isn’t enough
for the mess that you make,
you damage and break

the trees stop and stare,
my home is a mess,
because you live there.

i am a narra tree
i want you to cut me down
with your sharp ax
slowly
measured breaths
your sweat
my branches
down
down
down
i go to the ground
we leave my roots behind
my body will be your house
and i will haunt you
you will want me
curved
straight
smooth
until i am in
the floor
the walls
the ceiling
my body will be your house
and i will haunt you
until you want me
out of everything
push me out
drag me out
curse me out
but remember, i was a narra tree
and i wanted you to cut me down

Listen to the trees,
Hear them rustle in the breeze.
They whisper to the wind,
As it bristles all their leaves.
50 shades of green,
Shimmer like a dream,
And the trees give out a clue,
That the wind is passing through.
While somewhere deep inside,
Ghostly figures hide.
Spirits from within the wood
Play with shadows as they should.
The trees see you passing by,
And, with a soothing sigh,
Becalm your beating heart,
And relax your roving eye.