A Ballad - The Magical Tree

A Ballad: The Magical Tree or the Sad True Story of Pulp Fiction

Once -  above the horizon,
Once - below the stars
Where the sun goes rising,
Where the morning starts

Stood a pine full of needles,
Full of stories and sights.
It aspired to freedom
And inspired in sighs.

So old as the planet,
So young as a thought
It was dreaming and planning,
Humming songs so softly.

It had witnesses the journeys
Of the pirates and tides;
It had pined with the yearnings
Of the lovers through time.

In its juice lived the tale
Of the imp and the vase,
Of the magical whale
With a star for a face.

Through its bark ran the veiny
Plot of gangsters and dames,
Of the souls which were rainy,
Of adventurous days.

Stood the tree, time was streaming
Through its roots and its leaves,
Which were whispering dreamily
Things you wouldn’t believe:

Flying stallions, saucers;
Noble knights, evil witches,
Evil knights, noble sorceresses
And of cowboys in Wichita.

Stood the tree on horizon
And below the stars,
By the waves splashing, rising,
When the night makes a start.

But one day it was dozing,
Sleeping deeply and well.
Only came  a bulldozer
And the pine tree was felled.

Bodies dwelled, bodies nourished,
Bodies needed a place
And the pine tree which flourished
Was the last of its race.

With its twigs it inspired
In an ultimate gulp.
Into air and higher
Flew the bits of its pulp.

All its life, all its legends
Flew to clouds and stars,
Stories soaring and fledging
From the pulp into art.

Formed the concepts to pages,
And the pulp into words,
Turned the stories of ages
Into books for the world.

The synoptics were worried
When it rained from above
With miraculous stories
In most colorful covers.

Boys were jumping and clapping,
Girls were reading of love,
Mothers smiled but happily
That it rained from above.

Only those were scowling
Who abhorred life and art,
Only those were scowling
Who were missing a heart.

But the tree was a dreamer,
A historian, more…
While the sap traveled, streaming
With adventures galore.

It was hardly a writer
And its language was old,
Pages flying and running
With ideas untold.

So the clever and witty
Sharpened minds and the pens,
Shaping destinies swiftly
For the desperate fans.

Fashioned history’s venture
And ideas of art
Into plots, with a vengeance.
Here the traveling starts:

Feats of Martians and pirates,
Gangsters, cowboys and love –
Plots of fantasy, irony
Snowed from heavens above.

Into piles of presents.
Into stockings and trees.
So the heroes incessantly
Played in future and dreams.

Once, above the horizon,
And below the stars
Lived a pine, branches rising
Where infinity starts.

Once the masters of fiction
From their fancy and pulp
Wrote healthy addictions
For the son and the pop.

From their fancy and passion
And the tales of the tree -
Came the stories: refreshing
Of adventures and freedom.

Look, the cover is trembling
Sip the tea, bit the tart,
The adventures and travels
Are about to start…