Lumber, lumber my good man, let the trees of life fall down. Grey autumncoat in blue rain, heavy brow with unctuous sweat. He hee-haws on the patter, the retreating ants make a dance upon his feet, one by one leaving behind the broken remains of their abondened house.

Once he leaves his axe on the ground to take a tea, a gurgling seep, he then lets the rush of leaves wash away. He's job is done, he's coming back to my home.

I can see his grey contour, miles away from here, smeell the odour of his work.

Man, oh man, why must you of good heart leave the place wrecked in half?

Is it revenge for all your fallen companions? Have you come to service their deeds?

Tornado, tornado, tornado, do you wish us to walk away? Is it your desire to lays us aside? Have we taken up your land?

Do us, like the trees that grow and prosper in midsummer, will be left to wonder why you have splintered us and blown our feet?

You fall half of our forest, cruel companion. Then you fly away, going out in a puff three feet from my front bed.

I can no more put back together the forest. The lifeless ones, limp by limp and blood by blood will thus stay. If it your just intention, or maybe the seneseless madness that you harbour in your dark heart, I would never know more than the tarot reader knows the widening of the sky.