Ink & Parchment

The old ones spoke of mornings that smelled of wet leaves. They said the ground used to breathe after rain.  That you could walk for days across soft green lands, without once touching the hard, grey plains.  They spoke of towering forests of grass,  of petals crowded with visitors,  of dew hanging from every edge like tiny drinking bowls. I have never seen such things. Today, I sit on a wooden ledge,  watching the endless rivers of roaring metal beasts rush past.  The air tastes of dust.  The wind carries grit instead of pollen.  Even the flowers seem tired,  growing from cracks where they can. Sometimes I wonder if the old ones exaggerated.  If their stories grew larger with each telling. Then, after a rare rain, I catch the scent of damp earth, drifting up from somewhere hidden.  For a moment, the world feels different. Softer. And, I think, perhaps the old ones were not telling stories after all. Perhaps they were remembering ho...