A cool summer’s eve drew sun in evening glory. At a distant fold knew better light where breeze and sound combined would mute the nature between them. Within that nature, with sounds of walking footsteps through trail of wood and mud, there was I and a friend going through it all. Recounting the steps to this unknown part I could not call home nor haven. It was but a guest in nature’s woods. Watching through the glistening water from premature rain to cover the leaves with tears that drooping their eaves cast light into our eyes. These shady leaves in number grew had only our shadow they knew; more they found our steps to folly they surround us. Where one of us would attempt a log to pass through, another would walk around. I was the former.

After a half-hour walk we stopped at a fence dividing the woods from a wide open view of the rural plain that cast emeralds in our eyes that were priceless compared to the jewels we find elsewhere. We bore diamonds from eyes and clogged our veins with rubies whilst our breath fell short of steam to even utter the fewest words we could muster at the lambs grazing ahead. To the right, most lambs were golden statuettes that can only parse through nature as heaven’s reward; but the lamb was not the Earth; the Earth became the lamb.

Each, and each, each of every lamb walked past like a minute would go past. In numbers not, but shadily one by one. Whilst grazing they’d walk left or right, but most were walking away. We didn’t. We wanted to join them. What is it like to live as a lamb? Destined for such a fate we know. All the cries of our distant tales soon fell short of their reality. All we can do is watch. And when we go home we might all forget about our bleak thoughts. Let be. Laissez-faire. Let be, let mind congeal with these tender thoughts.

All time suddenly stopped. Everything stopped. Everyone for a moment froze. Nature had gone mad; God was not in field. All woes escaped. Hypnotised by this perfection of nature hence taken by defection of our formalities to appoint the disgrace of pity in sacking the will of nature here. When mine eyes ransacked their privacy, I did not realise I also tempted their liberty as well; they moved once they spotted me. They didn’t like being observed, so they left. Each and every. Stare at one for a minute, and they’ll walk away. Their captors are here, but nowhere to be seen. They’re around, but we are not them.

Once we saw the last of the lamb leaving our sight, so too did the sun leave new the moon to strike ahead. Before I go, before I am, the art I thought I was; the opportunity I thought we had, now suddenly gone, is done. Our duality of ego and id with the sets of ego preferred to the id. Now, here, I see none. All is gone. All is done.

Nature, Prose, Works
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