30 April 2012
The trees spoke in soft whispers of a subtle and gentle nature, telling the boy to run, run from the pain and ruin behind him. He did so. His feet brushing across the floor which he once stood so proud upon now just an outcast of the society he was once a part of.
Rain poured and showered the boy until he hung in wet clothes and dampened spirits. Still running. He never looked back; if he did; death. No body would miss him for the sins he stuck on his village. They would never care for that boy again.
He became the creature of the woods, the black sheep in a White flock, he could never go back but only live his life in the shadows of the gentle tree that spoke in soft whispers. Taking care of the boy with no name.
The Boy With No Name • Opuss № I