ITāS so safe and sound. The sound of a hopeless singer surrounds the unilluminated box. Birds chirping gone; the whistling sound of the trees as they dance through the air vanished; the bioluminescent creatures seem migrated, or worse, all died; the mires were so aggressive that anyone who would dare to test his power, would really regret til his last breath. But thereās this thing which remained. She looks to the moon, always. She seems devastated: her eyes are full of tears and are full of weary. She cries, silently. Sitting on a stone in the middle of the heartless mires, she begs for some help. Her right hand holds her chest and the other, pointing to the moon. She glows, the moonās light focuses specifically to her. There must be favoritism in here but doubting what youāre seeing is nonsense. She cries, but it seems that the voice she makes is being sipped, torn, and modified; the sound of a hopeless singer still reigns. The blue dress she wears has stains, though itās not quite visible what the stains are, I can say that it was brought to her by some calloused hearts. From the distance, Iāve seen shadows. Shadows of people with some tools. As they get nearer, the lady shouts louder and louder but again, it doesnāt help. The sound of a hopeless singer louden. As they get nearer and nearer, the light from the moon shrink. Wondered, I looked up. The clouds gradually devour the illumination. And everything, everywhere, went dark. The sound of a hopeless singer became a cry. Sound of a chainsaw proceeds. And the last thing I heard, drops of rains from the crying clouds. I woke up the next morning and I found myself in the middle of the forest. Forest of debris of devastated houses, chunks of trees that seemed to be deprived to live, thick muds that buried tens of thousands of people alive. I thank God, I was saved. Saved from an untamed nature that used to be a philanthropist.
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