Stories from a forest


They met in a forest. The boy and the girl. And after all the leaves were picked and all the wood chopped, they sat down to rest. In a shade. Below a tree with long leafy branches. The boy began a story. Of a Mountain. Who wept. After a fire had burnt all the trees in its forest. And how those tears. Had formed a cloud and embraced the mountain. The girl too told a story. Of a cloud. That was so sad seeing farmers dying. Of starvation. On stretches of barren land. That it could no longer hold itself. And it cried. As rain poured, the farmers wept in joy. And from their tears. A mist rose up, up and up towards the sky. Stories told. The boy and the girl. Picked up their leaves and wood. And walked back home. To their village. Hand in hand. Humming a tune. That their mothers sang every night before they went to bed.


Stories by a river


Come winter. The birds come. From a far off land. To sit by the river. And the river waits for them. As they fly in, the river counts. Never a bird less. Never a bird more. The river wonders. Because a river does not understand the puzzle of birth and death. The river wonders. Why the numbers never change. The bird fortunately does not know. That someone is keeping a stock. Of their presence. As spring ushers in, one fine morning they fly off. To return. The river keeps a watch. That none is left behind. For next winter the number must not change.


Stories in a desert


The train of camels move on. Leaving footprints on sand. Footprints that will soon be swept off. By a breeze. For sand holds nothing. Except the touch of a camel’s feet. In memory. The rest. Invaders. Traders. The adventurer. The tourist. The explorer. Are momentary in the desert’s vast expanse. They come. They go. What remains is the soft touch of a camel’s hooves.

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