A Solitary Retreat

I take an unhurriedly walk through the virgin forest with paths fully covered with brittle leaves, its trees emit mournful laments to protest its anguishing fate until spring arrives and transforms their dullness into a liveliness loved by a novelist; and walking farther, I spot a red-tailed hawk that built his nest amid the branches of a willow... should he return late, the cry for hunger will grow! Nothing thrilling is found in a barren forest when its beauty faded without the song of the larks when they frequented the fields of a bountiful harvest, I sit by the small lake without the floating ducks, they shivered into the cold water and departed at early sunset, leaving the drama on the poet's perplexed face; his narrative would have seemed real and deserving of praise... had he not embellished it with an unconvincing verse! I take a long stroll in a forest with a nakedness that frightens, there are no intriguing discoveries; those urban noises aren't too distant from the ears, the minds, and the thoughts of the observers; isn't tranquility and pensiveness that call all for solitude and the dreary images they extoll? Shouldn't they depress even if they are as realistic as the life of a derelict clothed with cheap garments, but has a noble spirit?