Poetry Soup

Poetry Soup On a stone in the forest a rusty pot full of soup, I tasted it with my right index finger it was still warm. I felt dizzy around me darkness descended it embraced me and I became a part of this weird mass, without will of my own. Wind blew me around like I was in a centre of vacuum till I lost all sense of time and place. When I woke up on soft moss it was sunset and I saw lovely forest maids with boar tails, their job is to protect saplings, swimming in a tarn. When they saw me they became furious, called me a pig, got out of the water and chased me out of their enchanted forest; all the while I was slapped by tree twigs, scratched by thorny bushes and called a Peeping Tom. Next day I tiptoed into the forest saw the pot of soup on a stone, but wisely desisted a taste; the tarn was still and deep.