By Julia Chobanyan

A chaotic assembly of green leaves

colour the air with the inimitable scent of morning.

Stones so smooth

that their marrow pale shells

disguise years of hard toil.

The gentle stream once endured

against the rough surface of stubborn rocks.

The trees, waltzing with the wind,

sway almost sentient and omniscient.

If you listen closely,

they have a thousand tales to tell

of lovers come and gone,

carved initials, their only proof.

A mighty core turned inside out,

unearthed to consume meagre mortals.

Those untamed and ignorant souls

that momentarily

succumb to the effortless beauty of the soil.

Mountains that witnessed the fall of countless empires

now point and laugh at the self-destruction in human


We are pawns in a grander scheme

with egos large enough to sustain the illusion

that we can be Kings.

All that transcends my finite existence,

at once washed away my all-consuming pursuit of indulgence.

And the fragile glass from which I sucked

the sweet nectar of life

shattered into a spectrum of shards,

unfamiliar and too sharp to handle.

To be found would be a tragedy if I were to get lost

in this tender and precious wilderness,

not yet ruined by the touch of man.

An echo intrudes my mind, asking: Who wrote this grand symphony? For what purpose?

what separates man from mechanical ants If not our ability to create,

and our capacity to love? With no reply, the symphony forces me to dance

like a puppet with strings invisible.

I take one more sip of morning. It tastes so good.