(1)

On the yellow fields, // alone, stands a white tree.
Leaning against the black mountains,
Proud and tall,
grasping the sky, feeling free,
Looking at my eyes, // you refuse to fall.

It whispers boasts that drift to me,
"Please, let me try,
I can be a tree..."
Clearly, I am yellow, through,
hidden among yellows that I always knew.

I told many people, // they only said,
"It's just a pole, common, // undone."
Can I not distinguish white from sky?
Surely they are wrong // in what they swear,
I sit beneath the white tree,
Who separates me from the pure world, // and say.

"I don't want // to talk to you anymore."
You turn away toward a distant space.
Without any cloning eyes, // no expression on your face,
Only by my mouth, // the white trunk remains,
separated from the black nights.

A piece reflects in the wind.
“Forget the end.” Someone said.

(2)

The piece of footprint // of the wild man,
Or his name is “Bigfoots.”
He turns back // with questions on his fingers,
Asking why I haven't // begun my search for truth.
Even with believing voices // that echo and fade,
I cannot turn my body,
rigid and afraid.

"Leave, please," no words fly,
With no one untouched by time,
I mutter to the // person beneath the tree,
Nothing worth giving him a try.

But behind me, now,
no watchful eyes remain from.
I gaze down // at my feet where shadows around,
White soil, and black wood chips,
A testament to what time slowly strips.

I hear the children's voices,
Floating from afar,
Talking of the white // tree like a distant star.
They too grew up listening // to the same,
Discussing with their parents without fail,
The legend of this yellow earth below,
And the white tree // that continues to grow.

When the sky is // no more than memory,
When black deepens into mystery,
Perhaps it has already turned to blue,
As yellow spreads behind me, ever,
As the white tree is always new.

Free.