The softness of the billowy bodies purely folds over the encompassing blanket of blue. I hold tightly to the warmth, intuiting fleeting peace. I discern individual, countless streams threatening to erupt from thunderous, spirit-dwelling shadows of purposeful warning. Several warnings follow, only to be observably pierced by illusions – masquerading as luminosity. These illusions only serve as a brief consolation for the masses, who are undeniably dependent on the final purpose of the illusions' initial existence. Lighter shadows mask the brooding intentions with the eventual appearance of clear hope, which only plunges the observers into further, ironic despair. Despite the whispers, darkness prevails and the brooding intensifies.

Pleading eyes are turned upward as the waters threaten to appear. The grey opens; the finality cascades. The white rubies fall with a pained urgency, which unceasingly enraptures my heart despite its insuppressible, imposing destiny. Others rush to console themselves, fear to reflect the darkness surrounding them. I cannot pull the cords of my heart from the doom. I am bound to the cries by ceaseless love. I pull my screaming babies closer to my chest as the doors of the barn are flung open, followed by violent, German shouts. The others shiver beside me when they realize that our hiding place has been betrayed.

"Ich habe sie gefunden!" I found them.

Waters strewed across cracked, heavy ground pulse across the mountain flats in despair like the hearts trapped under the insufficient clothing. Veins appear through the green, they slice puddles into the angry earth beneath the earth above. The earth above mirrors its brother, holding pools of silver mist instead of green and brown matter. Twinkling fear spreads over the horizon like an anxious phoenix. The above-earth grumbles like the hunger of the people beneath it. Flying, white rubies cut us with their unappreciated beauty. The feet of the people beneath carrying no feeling—only their hearts drown with every drowning clap.

The slicing intensifies while more loudness magnifies it. People fall around me, the olive boots and uniforms behind them signifying death for every slow individual and shaking a pair of legs. Hard, grey faces are illuminated as they escort us, only to be plunged into blackness like a snake's shed disguise. The illumination masquerades as a gift of the constant bolts—a cruel trick that actually belongs to black nights. Similarly, the black trees on the olive coats hold a deeper meaning, their menacing limbs drenched in the unceasing earth-tears. White rubies give way to violent amethysts, the liquid transforming into icy rocks.

They don't stop falling—the irony of their exquisiteness overshadowed by their cruel touch. Those olive boots don't feel the slicing. The shouts continue along with the loudness, signifying death. I pull my babies closer to me when the olive boots notice me. The beating of the sky's heart is in rhythm with my own, the desperation of the violent amethysts mirrored in my own new streams of tears. They can't take my babies from me. A looming face, darkened by the black night around us and folding over his olive green coat—with the black tree—is advancing towards me.

With a wood-splintering warning, another bolt erupts from above the earth, this time slicing into a tree behind me. My own stream of tears is diminished in the red reflection of my screams. Petals of crimson flame soon soothe my sight as they whip over the fallen tree, which crushes the olive boots. The olive boots lose their power under a tree—even the black tree on their olive coats couldn't save them. My fearful streams give way to tears of hope. The sky pulls back its white rubies and violent amethysts, its bolts are stilled, the warnings cease, and the earth's heart begins to beat normally.