The stranger knew that his appearance came from his art that he skilled in. He did not know why his eyes went vivid in one moment, pale the next. Sad and joyous he could manage to understand. Strange was he to himself and would remain always a stranger to his life and the life around.
And now,
when he looks at a tree and then at himself, he sees no difference between a man and a tree, both life, only that his roots being the art he excelled or managed in, and that decides his trunk branches leaves.
The trunk of the tree seems like his intellect, the more developed and healthy, the more the leaves and fruits.
''The dreams that flowed
in the shades of life
who else
it was only the
mother that cried.""
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