Tale Hunters
In the forest full of tales,
Once upon a time
There was a famished Huntress.
In a nightmare, she met a hare. Old and wise, with an orchid bursting of its eye.
At the crossroads of her dreams and prophecies,
She wandered around
– Looking for the hare.
It was waiting for her under a plant of an
Eery
Green color.
The plant sculpted its roots in the soil in intricate shapes.
A brave stag embraces an orchid, its antlers strengthen a stem.
In a few months, the stag will lose its antlers.
The plant might lose its stem.
The Huntress kneels in front of the hare. She doesn’t hear it,
It does not talk.
The orchid piercing his eye does.
It ruffles its black petals in a creaking murmur.
She listens.

« A huntress is not a flower.
A huntress has no roots.
A huntress is a sinner,
She must catch a fable so that her feet without plants
Can grow into saints. »
In the forest full of tales,
The unholy Huntress
Searches for myths to make her legend.
She looks up
To the trees with their gathered arms
And leaves made of threads, trying to wrap around her neck.
She looks down
On the earth
Sewn shut with a million stitches,
With roots like corsets trying to contain its madness.
But the mad hearth pukes a goat
– Half eaten by a wolf.
Mr. Seguin did warn Blanquette, but she never listens.
Blanquette is a goat, goats never listen.
But hunters do.
Blanquette is the relic of a lost folklore.
The Huntress is one root closer to becoming a saint.
In the forest full of tales,
The tired Huntress is
Lost.
The Orchids with their necks like swans
Follow the Huntress
Lay where she rest
Feast on her chest,
Grow on her sinister path
Like a phantom fleet.
Root beneath her feet,
Whisper in her ear
That another tale is rotting somewhere near.