A picnic. The remnants of such have seeped into the disturbed bed of ancient rock, a
slow and radiant poison. Many of these visitors had appetites that churned topsoil and
abyss, and begat grief and marvels.
Take care, young ones; their bones claw at us still, poking through the weeds.
Drunk on the ink of time, they forgot to write down the names of our forebears. We
found no cenotaphs of their prey, but they shed profuse tears that called the sea to the
edge of their feast. They said it was rude of her to come and spoil the fun. And when the
day wasn’t long enough, they brought out their own sun. It chased their own shadows
away. And that was that.
Roots may have taken miles of their idle halls yet I fear I hear their teeth chatter as we
walk past their buried cities. In the aftermath of their picnic, only silence is kindness, as I
am sure the trees would agree. Or at least there should be dancing of other than
bipedal beat.
But sometimes my mind wanders beyond the grass and rubble, if they should come
again, what then?

Text by H. Manaligod