imagea road with no signs
winter is coming
air of the forest
bursts in
when you open the car window
it smells of fresh fire
and hidden treasures
and memories
for the forest itself
is a cleaning company
it has seen so many masks
being dropped
in a rage of honest wild struggle
of the hunters and the hunted
of all kind
the forest
the great cleaner
always turns the evidence
into a peat bog
it’s a God’s name
in Russian
its’s said
the holy holder
of an unabridged
yet unavailable dossier
for this eventful era
of humans and fowl
of wolves and mighty mosquitos
acting without any written orders
decomposing then
into a perfect fuel
that makes the forest road
or any other track
roll endlessly
under your feet.