Stories are forged where time does not flow
Where it rains the sun and shines with snow
Mountains can crack with the breath of trees
who aren't bound to the ground but wander free.
Lakes made of leaves pepper the land
with shorebeds of ivy instead of gold sand.
In one such lake, not large not deep
lies a moon that's half asleep
Its surface is glassy, smooth and warm
with tranquil dark chambers where snowflakes are born
When snow fills the sky there's no day or night
everything shines in its glorious light.
On one of these snowflakes there was once a fight
Between two new creatures who saw the same sight.
The creatures were not ones that you'd recognise
They did not have legs, no brains, ears or eyes
But neither doubted what each saw
an ocean of mould and nothing more.
The mould was rather commonplace
covering nearly all surface.
It clothed the world so warm so thick,
and strangely strong, no knife could prick.
The balmy, mulching, moving mass
of mould so black it was clear as glass,
Tempting and clear these oceans looked
but nobody swam, so beginneth our book;
It was just this fact that caught the attention
of the beings on the snowflake I have already mentioned.
When one observed the mould so deep
thought no-one wished to disturb its sleep,
So nobody swam or altered the peace
of this gentle, mouldy fleece.
The other one on this bright snowflake
pointed out its partner's mistake
For who would be so bold and dary
to dip toes in a sea so scary.
And thus the conflict of this duo
disturbed the snowflake which ceased to glow.
The flake turned grey, then black, then blue
it fell to the ground and there a tree grew.
It grew very fast, it grew big and strong
it stretched out its boughs and sang out this song:
I've only been here for a while
But as I peer round I can only smile
For wonders in this world so great
give me cause to contemplate
It rang so loud, he sang so clear
that every thing that was could hear,
and they paused for something was wrong
it just could not be, this curious song,
For thought did not exist in this place
but this tune had caused their minds to race.
The trees, being old, could not contain
a surge of growth in their aged brains.
And so they stopped to think where they stood
but thought so slow they were stuck for good.
The earth overwhelmed, into a frenzy it flew
and being so young it rapidly grew.
It climbed over branches and held them down fast,
rooting them there with bindings that last.
For vines it was a different matter,
for spaces to think their branches grew fatter.
The lumps filled with juice to make thoughts flow smooth
And as they got brighter their bark was removed.
The grapes, as they're called, having done so much thought,
made excellent brain food, or so they ought.
But animals were yet to roam in this land
They needed a kick to pull out their hand.
And this is where the snowflakes returned
into our story for they no longer burned.
They drew close together to keep themselves warm,
until they resembled some flies in a swarm.
They wriggled to move to warmer air
and to help them move fast wings grew like hair.
The flies newly formed tried to cling to their past
Whenever they see light they fly to it fast
They try to rekindle the spark they once knew
When they were snowflakes and had naught to do.
With the skies clear of the light
the world was now bathed in a thing we call night.
The plants they all hushed for they already knew
that silence was dark and dreadful too.
They did not know when the light would return
they did not know the sun could burn.
But the silence only lasted so long
that troublesome tree returned with his song:
There isn't a thing that we folk can do,
if lightness exists then dark does too.
It will pass of course in its time
but when it's around its peace is sublime
All were eased when they heard this soft tune,
they could enjoy dark, for light would come soon.
And so it did the very next day
and the world seemed changed in an extraordinary way.
Where there was stuff, lifeless and flat
creatures had formed, dog, mouse and cat.
They were stupid, slow, small and lazy
And to the thoughtful may have looked somewhat crazy.
But cunning was their prominent trait
And spotting the vine tree they headed there straight,
for why did they need to think for themselves
ideas had grown on the plant like shelves.
They ate and gorged and filled themselves up
with juice so thoughtful they nearly threw up.
Instead though they merely removed via glands
the thoughts that they could not quite understand.
Then they were tired, then darkness came,
Then they slept deep till light came again.
They awoke raring to eat some more thought,
but cats were cunning and mice they caught.
So cats grew more crafty with their palette of thoughts
Mingled by mice brains whose lives were cut short.
And when cats died the ground grew quite fat
on food of thoughts, the thoughts of cats.
So trees began to grow such fruit
as made the animals want to loot.
Trees stripped bare in seconds or so
by armies of ants, bees, mice and crow
who all in turn had new ideas
which returned to the ground after some years.
This, someone called the circle of strife
Life growing thought and thought feeding life