Men who guard the infinite softness of women that run into the wild solved the riddle of the world.

Their arms, branches, their feet roots, to a beating heart that knows no bounds, and no other way, but into the unknown.

And by being the tree, they become the fruit.

They are the home the wild yearns for.

But no one knows it until they do.

Some never will.

The fragility of the untamed flame eludes them.

And the wild in their own heart is left to wander, feral, in the dark.

© Milana Vujkov, Woodlands, 2019

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