"Remote lines used to extend under the branches, trunks and roots. Always from wiggly paths, never straight ones. Resembling nerve fibers or blood veins. The soil was wet and fresh, not dry. The leaves and branches dying slowly and then turning green again once every year was a never changing natural mechanism. The moist and sticky smell of the soil, the dazzling rays of the sun effusing from among the branches and blue holes of the sky.
These were no more. What I witnessed was a cemetery. The soil and the branches, the insects and the moist of the soil nothing was as it used to be. They had all bid farewells to life, never to return."