Today morning smells like winter cemetery, drawn in silky silence of voicelessness, muffled up with softness of whispering snow, flying and cradling the nothingness, crooning tales of the skies, hushing black and moisture soil, licking memorial stones.
Possibly soon we'll see the cemetery as the only "green" place on earth, the only naturaly vivid and mother land. Strangely we make the Earth inapplicable for living. And just cemeteries, darkend forests and bogs seem to hold their own spirit so natural for the world and so frightening for the people.
But "progressive streams" and commercial seem to kill the ghosts, gods, spirits, souls. We make earth ill-suited for silent energies.
We rush. We reach. We can. We make. We kill. We suffer. We spread. We multiply. We make holes. Finally we absent.
And when we absent, the nature calms down. It snows. Continually. Gently. Perpetually. Calming down. Calming down. Come to your roots, under roots, under woods. Let the trees be fed with your blood. Give your soul to the sky, your energy to the space, your oomph to the elements, your will to the winds. Be nothing, silent as stones, under cold air and warm earth. Deafly silence could heal even deadly sins. The seed quickens, covered with the abundant soil.
The sprout grows where the human dies.

ноябрь, 2015