Time

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...In the Valley of Things grows a tree. Each of its leaves holds a life - and all beings sway between its old branches.

When the wind blows from the south, it carries the laughter of children playing on their young leaves. When it blows from the north, it carries the 'kiiii kiiii' of shouting falcons, the keening of hungry cubs, the buzzing of mosquitoes lost in kitchens.

Yet never does it carry the click-clack sounds of the Gardener's scissors as they stealthily cut away leaves and lives, as regular as any clock.

Click-clack.

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In the Valley of Things, spring and autumn are one.

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Click-clack, and here they fall, the discarded leaves. Like broken toys, they sprawl and dry to dust on the forgotten soil below. No strings attached any more : they are the loosened puppets, the fading faces. Like water, they drip between your fingers and you cannot clutch them close.

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Yet when the night is still and no wind blows, unfurl your heart and the whispered melody of falling leaves will swirl around you, a last song, so much .like ...the.... thud .....of ......lost....... voices.