On a windy island grows a forest where moss warriors march at night, where trees see and listen; whisper to the passing traveler. Here earthy spiders weave their silky webs. Here fairy tales are born.
This is my country. It’s grey, it’s cold, it’s waiting. Waiting for the snow to bury the stripped landscape in a pure white blanket. The fields like a lover’s stubble, trees like needles pointed at the heavy sky. Everything is quiet. And then: Footsteps, cracking branches and a few carefully selected words.
Last night I couldn’t find you in the forest. It was misty and I’d forgotten my compass under my night table. The trees were whispering in their sleep and I tried to walk gently on their winding roots. There were strange boats by the lake and voices of creatures from faraway lands echoed across the water; songs in languages unknown to me, and laughter. As the rain begun to drop on the leaves above me, I wished your bed was dry and warm and through your dream you’d hear this song. On my way I found blueberries and carried them home in the hem of my dress, so that tomorrow we could kiss with sweet purple lips.