The disaster of empathy

From “The colour of wheatfields”

Drops running on a string

I get wet even with the sun shining

Selfless desires and shared feelings

I know when you’re not scared and I know when you should be.


I can see you headed for the wasp nest and can already feel the stings.

You haven’t yet climbed the tree

And I can see you falling.


I guess the waterfall from the sounds of the river.

I hear the spark of a fire, I already smell the woods burning.

I see the bones under your flesh, I see the wolves eating.

The blood moon that foreshadows a disaster.

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