by André de Sá Moreira

The tree became the lover.
There is no longer any distance between the plant and the human. The bark groans – or is it we who groan with pleasure?

Dresamore kisses the trunk as one kisses the end of the world. Her lips brush against the silent matter, releasing a photosynthetic impulse that we will never know if it is romantic or necrophiliac. At that precise moment, the entire urbanity disappears: the cars no longer exist, the passersby no longer breathe. All that remains is an impossible duet, a slow-motion chlorophyll tango.

Some will talk about emotional ecology. Others about rape. I see it as a love story. The city tree, alone and forgotten, becomes the last body to which one can confide everything without receiving a response. A lover in the open air. A partner who will never leave.

Testimony

 

" The guy is hugging a tree. It's embarrassing and beautiful. A caress that's both vain and essential."
— Daniel De Soucase

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