Philosophy in the woods
In the night of owls one voice is louder than the restIn fact:
- There are no other voices
I don't know what makes me sit on a bed of roots, formed in to a shape of that rocking chair my grandmother used to tell fairytales about...
According to the legend, there once was creatures called "Nickheads", small representatives of the human race.
My grandmother told me that the nickheads used to sit on old rootbeds in the summer, looking at us, "the ordinary people".
I dont see the point.
What could be so remarkable with us?
It is april.
Kind of cold so I take my tail, sweep the roots so that they look clean and tidy.
Time to go home.
I love my old oaktree...
Poetry by Leif H T Strand
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Written on 2006-09-25 at 10:08
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