The sea of wheat glimmers golden, rolling and waving at the will of the wind, alive. It spreads as far as the sight can reach, dotted with red, blue and yellow spots hidden beneath the straws, themselves, yellow.


            It rustles softly and calmly, as the fresh breaths of air sweep across the hills. Birds merrily chirp, perched on a sturdy olive tree, its leaves a dull mixture of green and grey. Rodents and insects climb, dig and scratch it, foraging for food, shelter, or a mate. The roots cling securely on the small hill the tree settles, winding up on themselves like muscular snakes tightening their grip on a prey, to form the log.


            The perfect blue-marine skies frame the scene, with only a few scattered and ravaged white clouds staining it, but creating a pleasant balance between the colours.


            Only a small patch of grass under the tree remains unaltered by the massive flood of wheat, shielded by the tree and its roots, fertilized by the critters droppings and waste.


            The sweet scent of thousands of flowers, and the raw, powerful smell of the soil mingle beautifully.


            It all coexists in a heavenly harmony, free from disturbances. Free from any interaction, or alteration.


            But that was all before.


            There is no golden. There is no green. There is no red, blue or yellow.


There is only grey.


            The land is picked clean from any and all life, the terrain ravaged and gutted by the many bombshells and gunfights. The wheat, and the flowers, all lay in a putrid, muddy layer inches below the surface, mixing with the mud. Pools of stale, toxic water lay in some particularly deep craters. Threads of vapor rise from the charred terrain, the whole scene is enveloped in a cloud of eerie, toxic fog. The sky: grey, concealed by heavy clouds of dust and smoke, forever, but gently, raining down ashes on the terrain.


            Everything is silent. Not a single chirp, rustle, anything can be heard. Even the wind’s been silenced. Not only the water is stale, the entire scene is. Frozen by the atrocities brought onto it, being the fog the only having freedom of motion.


            The air is filled with the acre and sulphurous smell of decomposition and burnt chemicals.


            All is dead. The corpse of the olive tree lays on its hill, barren, skinned from its leaves. The wood is charred and covered by a layer of grime and black. It now crumbles, slowly and painfully.


            There is a certain beauty to it. The quiet, the void of motion and color. The tendrils of smoke ascend slowly and carelessly… into the stained heavens. So peaceful. Who knew death could be?


A green sprout slowly snakes on up, protected by the almost fatherly roots of the now defunct olive tree. It is its legacy. It is the future.


            It is the premise of a new beginning to life. But is it needed, or preferred?


            Can life be an option in this new world?