.
There's a tree.
Does have signs in its log.
This tree was fed with the westwinds haze, and it cries; its leaves distil drops, which falling on the ground turn into spades...nymph-eyed spades.
The spades penetrate the tree to the core. Thousands and thousands of spades, and it bleeds...
[The tree] points its light to a statue of salt, a white lady all radiance and centuries, her salt eyes are looking at the bleeding tree. Both are separated by a luminous wall of ice, which the cosmos built one night of the life.
...As the fingers of the lady of salt get bent and stretched, almost reaching the starlights, the tree buries its roots deeper down in despair, and does throw its bleeding branches toward the sideral mirror...
Once upon a time a valley, enchanted by the horror and the desolation. A valley surrounded by interminable camps of ice; the valley of the tree and the lady of salt.
The tree wasn't a tree, the statue wasn't a statue, just the Sun of his growing.
There's a mystery in that place. The constellation's ice know it...just a bird, a little bird still dares to sing over the spades. The warm herald of love, he never dies.
...And I wonder...
.
