by Rona Nushi

  Right where the fields of oranges and lemons crossed, he stayed there, like a non belonging tree. Arms wide open welcomed birds, which come and go and leave no good, but scratches on his skin. Leaves of green become yellow, abandon his body and touch the ground. He cares not, I assume. 

  Can a man be so humble and ask no food for his soul? Bones of lean shape his body as he makes more place for birds. Songs of joy they sing for him, but his breath takes out no word. "Give them life," he tells himself, while his own gets destroyed.  

 Will such place keep him breathing or should his roots pierce new soil? He might be nude on speaking, but his heart holds the atheneaum you'd want to explore. Dig in fearless with love and joy, or let the man on his own. 



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