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The Old Tree

winner Story Circle of Bards IV"

black twisted tree and dry, as if the fire had licked the bark until blackened with soot, but no fire had hit him forest. In the clearing in the growing had decided to withdraw all other plants, shrubs, ferns and brambles did not even dare to bury their roots in the same clear, rocky land where the tree grew. The lush green oaks was a note in the melody of tune, with its skeletal limbs and low they barely deigned to move against the wind. Both altered the nature of the course, that even the sky seemed the deep blue of the summer on his glass, but rather a sepia tinged bloody that bedeviled the mood and animals and insects away from there.
The first time I got to the course was still young enough to believe in legends, and I thought I saw a tree that was cursed by a demon that was determined to imbue evil ugliness. In my childish mind, was once a beautiful tree so that he could raise in their roots to the first Dryad who saw the world had long, since the human being pulling iron from the soil and it has produced weapons to harm the tale. He kept
I invented the story with the demon stalking the woods, because the demons are able to smell certain things men have already forgotten how they smell. The devil is closer to the tree, attracted by its scent of magic, and following a primitive instinct, try to snatch their arms at the tender Dryad of green hair. Happen then a battle in neighboring trees could still be read if someone cut off their trunks, and knew how to understand the language of rings, in that battle launched the tree branches laden with ripe and juicy, as if his arms were treated against the devil. More agile than the old tree, the demon dodge attacks, and finally reach the Dryad asleep. Succumbing to the temptation of such beauty, the devil would deposit a warm kiss on the lips of the Dryad, full of sin and vice, and later sequestering far, far away. Thus, the tree, old and tired, at the sadness of his loss, would wither and dry up, until it turned into a sack of wooden bones.
Before that ancient tree, a few days later, with a resolution that only eight years can be, promised that his daughter would recover. Carrying a broken branch as a sword, knelt at his feet, believing even hear his blessing in the language of trees, how only be heard when the wind moves among the branches.
For many weeks what others seemed a game had become my most important mission: looking for traces of the demon hard (and more than once mistook for those leaving the goats), to find his hideout and rescue the Dryad small. He dreamed of returning victorious to his father, and in return, maybe get a kiss from the little creature. That summer I spent long hours spent in this quest, until exhaustion and boredom made me forget.
Years later I returned to that forest, and become an unbelieving teenager, I felt ashamed have tried to find a Dryad armed with a broken branch and hopefully plant a kiss. I looked back, with eyes that were believed to adults, their branches dry and black, and its gnarled roots sinking into a land they had claimed for them, and no one else. I felt the power of that tree, old, dry and twisted between fresh oak, and to the discomfort of knowing more powerful than I at that time that I believed the most powerful men, left the course at full speed with my dignity torn asunder.
Time, which continues to walk, led me to many forests of cement and steel, and find love in sporadic human females, when a waning moon night I found myself longing for the Dryad who had stopped looking. I did my best to get back to that forest, and discovered with horror that he had decided its commercial logging. Would be wiped out by the metal teeth of so many trees wise and kind, and especially the mighty tree he had known, and whose daughter had fallen in love and still have eight years. As a final farewell, and the lack of solutions that winter as an adult I stood in the clearing of the old tree, and knelt before him, begging forgiveness for abandoning the search.
returned the child in all of us born in me, and grabbed the narrow waist of the tree with my arms, seeking comfort from his wisdom. Begged her face bark for its history, and watered their base with my salty tears.
All night was spent outside, in a continuous half sleep and hold the bark of the tree. When the day I woke up, his cold breath, his whole body bruised and sore, and a head full of burning and painful screams. I could not remember, at that moment, where I was, until I noticed the wrinkles of the tree scratching my hands and my cheek, and memories suddenly fell on my head. A bird-like shadow was stirred out of my field of vision, and to the strangeness of another living being dared to lay their eyes on that tree, I looked up curiously.
was not any bird that perched in its branches, but a sheet of yellow paper that fluttered black paws pinned to the tree. I knew it was important, even without knowing its contents, so I got up as I could, and clung to a crack in my fingers whiners. When I got my hands I could see it was written: a beautiful and ancient calligraphy graced with your paragraphs all a veneer. I can only transcribe what he said, they are not my words they must tell their story.
"For too long this light was green and beautiful, and here I knew love. Saw fit to give me five years of his lips on mine, her hands between my fingers, her tempting body and her voice my eyes my ears. I lived rent-old, which were meager but sufficient, and meanwhile I was doing the art of writing, passion for living and none of mine liked. Save it. She was muse and reading for my stories and poems. After those five years he gave me, I snatched the disease, coughing scarlet, and left me alone with my poems, my stories, no one to read and could inspire. I decided then die myself, in that clearly met so many joys, and rested there day and night, without food or water, until my body full grief and anxiety was dry and dark under the inclement weather. And that body resected by a lack of love and grief, was born just a dry tree, which began with its roots all life around him and stole the color that covered the sky. Many years ago, a clean-looking boy, who also knew of stories and poems like me, gave me a new story for my existence, and woke up again in the wooden body. Since you owe this second life I have, you will have to deliver all that is really mine: if you happen to survive until spring, I promise that for every branch of mine posted a new story, and in those Auditors found the child once were, and perhaps lead you to the Dryad who loved to just eight years. "
Unfortunately there is no romance in these times, and that January was down the entire forest, including the tree that once was a poet. Perhaps he now thinks that I read and missed every opportunity to find my Dryad, but wrong. It was just impossible to find during the years that I stopped searching, but the words of that old poet with me now, and I remember that he who does not seek, can never find. Let

Lot Cervical Mucus After Ovulation

The bottle of rum

here, waiter, leave the bottle
not withdraw it, which is a nice company
In label me a beautiful woman smiles
And with its sweet taste my tongue loose.
amber rum
This brings back bad memories, however
Of some nights I knew were also were toasted caramel
loving arms
thirsty lips that pulled me right.

of their language I understand only knew your name
In our eyes universal language spoke
His hands taught me the pleasure of being human.

Those nights were completed long ago
I stole my money, but nobody is surprised
If you still miss those lips that I loved.


-Thanks to Crysagon, for choosing the title.

Breaking

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So Be

the last string that separates me from you
Melt centuries
stand between us forever banish the sadness of your smiles
And the nostalgia of your hugs
Dar new fruits to the dead tree and bury the dead
past with new hopes
Cheers to burn in the ashes of a flame
That so many tears had off then
Mudar rarefaction of the faces and shoulders
uncomfortable
By weight they must bear
of years lost in cold darkness
Open eyes again, without any veil translucent membranes
Peel
that deform the world and render it sterile
impregnate the future with golden dreams Shouting
the Storm that faces us
Taming the Sea furious with our hands folded
stand up on the autumn wind
dress and feel the tears of heaven to bathe our faces
Finding lost keys
to open your heart to mine and vice versa
merge into an amalgam of aromas
Quenching the thirst of our parched lips rest
Finally, one
In the land of dreams and Metaphor
What are yours and mine heritage
And dream again , together, to not wake up.