Explosions in the forest. That's all I see.
Everywhere. Above and below.
The sound, its not right though. Loud, but not obnoxious. More like a distant whaling, a rustling of many feet.
The smoke floats this way and that, settling only with silence. The smoke, it retains its exquisite colour. That is, until uncovered. Next year.
They happen every autumn, these bombings. They affect all that’s around them, transforming the landscape to bright scarlets and lavish golds. But soon, the explosions will stop. And silence will fall.
A strange thing then happens. The same occurrence every year. It's the ash of distant bombings, or so I hear... The purest of white, whiter than bone. It falls slowly, drifting into banks. Covering everything. My country's leaders have told us to stay away from this. That it's dangerous.
But I don't believe that. Every day, whenever I can, I sneak out to study this wonderfully new land. Every day it changes, dramatic, yes, but with a sort of subtlety.
What are these brilliant phenomena that ensue so boldly every year? The colours and the ash.
THE ASHEN COLOURS.