Threads Of The White Lands

Laying on the ground, taking the rotting planks as its own stolen mattress, a motionless doll dressed in a red robe, gifted by this odd concept that is life, exhales.Its wooden face, arms, legs, and hands are covered by damaged clothing named skin.A faint hum accompanies every exhale, a single sustained note.It goes against the wind's; it makes memories of the birds' chants scream, a twisted note that defies any laws evolution settled. A rebellion, we call it, a forced act against nature itself.A false promise of freedom, innovation they dared to name it. A music box.   Resting on the silver mattress, wrapped in sheets of silk, claiming their very fabric as its own, a sleeping doll, gifted by this beautiful concept that is life, exhales. A faint hum accompanies every exhale, a single sustained note.It goes perfectly along the wind's; it makes the roses vibrate even more, a magnificent note that rules over any laws evolution settled.Around it, the room seems to tune and resonate, the curtains to float and bend around its will. A doctrine, we call it.A will to morph nature to ours.A testimony of freedom, innovation, we proudly named it. A music box.