The forest is where the witches are asleep, that's where the squirrels are their cozy nests, this is The Monster that may arise after the crooked tree, and the wolf devoured the rabbit.
In the forest, the leaves speak, and it is very easy to listen to them, unless one is deaf, and again. The imagination does the rest. In fall, they cut the cord and fall slowly, and perhaps philosophy as they discuss the books by Felix Salten, life and death, and the sobs of the violins, and then on land, they die , trampled by passengers unconscious. The fall does not kill.
In the forest there is a gentle breeze, which makes the leaves sing in unison before the fall. There is the sound of the flute, and Pan's course, which sitting on the rock of the Fairy Morgana, becomes suddenly Music Master to teach younger faunas.
There are always a small wildlife for not following the music, and this is the better: it must always even in the woods. There are children who go astray and find ferns. Ferns are interesting because in addition to having a nice name to pronounce, they are pretty, and receive little affection: squeezed between two trees, they are ignored. They watch the sky, but are condemned, most often, watching the earth moist and brown, where their roots, there where the feet sink. Trees, head in the clouds, can not see everything. And then he would lower his head, and it does not happen when one is majestic. The Oak asserts: never bend. While ferns are sometimes the only show that the Forest is a vast cemetery.
In the forest, one can spend hours there. Only you can choose your pace. Nose in the air, the nose on the shoes, as slowly as possible. Avoid taking the beaten track, the grooves are too deep, and when it is time to go, we hurry on, to have sore thighs. The slightest sound from behind is a sign of danger. In
forest, there will, perhaps, a river. A river in which fish swim a few that can not be naming names, a frog, with a little luck. Of weeds everywhere, which intertwine and some flowers, like the lovers of old, will die of love. Perhaps here, Shelley, as on the banks of the Serpentine has come to sail a small paper boat.
In the forest, the children play hide-and-seek in, shouting to scare them, until one of them, the unlucky or the most foolhardy, to get caught by the witch who lay in her cauldron, and in this pot, a mixture of venom blood and serpent dove. She thought at first to transform into a rat, but it will have more to eat a piglet.
In the forest, there is the small cemetery of the Sisters, this small square graves broken between the cracks of a stone, a flower grows wild there and red. The nuns are crying alone, as they have always cried.
In the forest, one looks in vain where lives the attorney general. In the forest, the fox is silent. In the forest, there are sounds and songs that recall the word never. In the forest, the leaves die and the time has more power, the memories are forever and are hiding in the forest itself is perhaps a huge heart that beats to the rhythm of footsteps. In the forest, we remember the cry of the owl eleven we smiled to see the chimney of the house through the tree branches. At midnight, we look through the window the trees and wondering on which branch the owl was asleep. The sky is black. The forest in summer shines, literally. The forest is a vast cemetery with twisted trees when winter comes. Hidden secrets and fears that are silent, and tears that we forget to pay.
In the forest, there is a clock hidden among the trees, muffled, loved perhaps, beneath vegetation that wraps around his chiseled wood. She stops at a date, time, one year. She will never again, as precise.
The clock stopped: I'm never returned.
