There is an escape route that takes you to secret lake much smaller than any other lake I know.
I heard scant music coming from a vent through a thick grove of spruce trunks and I followed my ears.
I discover this lake that is cold and clear, the lapping water on the rocks like rain on clean fingers.
Sound that washes your thoughts and drips your fears cool.
No one bathes on its water. No, its too far for the human legs to take him.
It is not the distance, but it is very far. You need to hear the music.
Close your ears around the rugged trunks.
There is no one who plays the music.
It is just the wind running through the trees and their tresses.
And it is only meant to lead the inquisitive ear to the lake. Glass. Rippling.
But the horror.
It burns. It burns. The lake dries up. The mountain melts. The water singes my skin. My escape burns.
Disenchantment hates my world. And conspires against it.
And everyone on earth upholds disenchantment. And they win always.