Prose and poetry done at a writing class taken recently.

A quiet and crisp night – only the moon shines through the forest. It is silent, like God has put a silken sheet over the world. Only the soft drips of raindrops as they fall to the floor of the forest can be heard.

Rain is curiously simple in some aspects – it is really just water – yet it embodies a much more complex idea behind it. Standing in the forest, one cannot help but listen to the rain dripping downwards, drenching the leaves like tears from a forgotten goddess. The pitter-patter forms music, and thunder becomes the rhythmic offset to the moment.

As the lightning flashes, however, much more becomes evident. A deer, running for safety from the rain. An ant, desperately making for its home but being caught in the pools of tears. Suddenly, as the clouds rumble overhead, a more saddening situation is felt.

You feel one with the animals, small, weak, and helpless. One with the forest, and one of many.

This is beauty.

But just like that, the silence grows a companion. For in the distance, the sounds of a guitar playing begin to form. The crisp notes are a stark opposite of the forest’s slow and dull sounds. A bongo joins in, and a girl begins to sing.

“Oh world, oh world,” she sings. “How I love the tears you cry from the sky, how I love the trees you mold from the ground.” And like this, she continues. Animals all around the forest shuffle gently in their homes, listening to the melodous music.

The next morning, the sun shines brightly. In a meadow beside the forest, young children dance. Their mother, a cautious one, comments on how terrible the forest is. Such a dangerous place, she remarks.

How right she is, and yet – how wrong she is.

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