First was Lady Marcellus

Then was thee dress

Her nation would always confess

What a beauty gave her a bliss

A gown sown by the company of lyres

So fine, it flaunted with drapery.

Its folds welterd in harmony.

In a mere walk descended Lady Marcel

As the maids sang her well

Enamored, to the chamber of farewell

Before the dress,

a maid dared to tell:

"What 'mount are those ruffles?,"

"A gown sown by the company of lyres

Ten thousand secrets possess those layers

Yet strangers now possess the land of ours."

To an underneath chamber was the walk

After a hundred years of sowing the dress

The queen to her maids confess

"What a shame saw my folks;

We lose a war that is

We take the stairs

to abyss,"

"Tear off thee ruffle,

Keep on thee hussle,

Murder thee craft

Make mee a haft

To a long whip

To many a flip

Suffer o skin"

Now to the chamber of farewell,

A queen had those stairs fell

Her dress of a thousand ruffle

Hip yet ripped

Into a rope that will have whipped

Her for a lost war she lipped

"What a shame! my folks fell;

NOW! To the chamber of farewell!"

You gave it to me and called it a present and ordered that I untie the wrapping unwillingly. But with all the laughs of irony I called it a burden, and now as I am standing on a shaking ground I could not help but see myself bargaining on the present.

You puffed it into me, so I am a mere breeze of your breath. No churches or temples that did not praise your present,  some even dedicated a lifetime thanking you for the present. And now that I am standing on a shaking ground I questioned its need, I questioned my pulse, sight, and wisdom.

While I expected it the least when I was nothing, you gave it, thrust it into my body to  and commanded that I live, carry it, and survive no matter what and take care of it. But now that I am standing on a shaking ground I can only recall what I endured living this life because of your present.

I could recognize all the muffled cries outside the building calling the name my parents gave to me, right after you gave me the present. And now that I am standing on a shaking ground I can either escape the falling building or only stay still for all the bricks to shutter down onto my figure huffing my last breath up to the wrathly sky to send you back the present.

Trees without Birds

"These trees are to breathe all time," demanded our fathers to keep all the village trees alive. What you didn't know about our trees is that they fed on souls. First our elderly watered them with all their days and hours left until they lost their very last, leaning under those long shabby trees. We even buried them nearby those fat trunks so they feed on what was left of their dead flesh; nevertheless, those long trees kept growning longer and with a harder shell yet the more we gave the further they faded. No little birds or nature they would embrace. Unless you are not one of us, you think of them as of unsight. Then we poured those trees our souls. Though we kept a little to us, stashing that little much of soul as thieves but those trees quenched harder and spread longer drier twigs imposing for more souls. Sometimes, we couldn't avoid the everyday-growing twigs. Those timeworn trees bolted shade as dark as a sable night not letting us chant to a sun at morning neither flirt with a lost constellation in a nightful sky. Those trees almost captured everything alive yet still looked more miserable than ever. You roam across the valley in a beautiful sunny day, yet an earthquake rushes through the grounds. You run for your life and in the right time you arrive a certain peak. The earthquake had stopped and you're looking at the ends of our valley; our trees, too long in age and length, lying dead with their long rock-hard thirsty twigs thrusted into our chests as they fell. Yet the surviving trees looked as if they made a thick border around the village as if to imprison us. You are suddenly drawn away to the greener trees on the other greener side and cannot help but wonder. You spot beautiful kids playing by the soft fresh young intact branches. You reach out to see the truth in the clearing of those way shorter trees than ours and study their story. Their people cut off the old trees and these are newly seeded unlike the trees in our fathers' death note, too long and shabby. The villagers who survived the long twigs lived within the thick border of those long trees, giving them more souls.