In quest of labor, in search of bread,

A youth doth tread where few dare tread.

Through streets of old, both grim and worn,

Where nature’s green hath been reborn.

With creeping vines, a tangled maze,

And wildflowers lost in sunlit haze,

Upon crumbling walls, tales silent lie,

Murmuring secrets to the passerby.

Leaves doth rustle in soft winds’ sigh,

Whilst the boy doth wander, hopes held high.

Ghostly laughter from days long past

Faintly mingles with dreams so vast.

In this wild domain, reclaimed by decay,

He findeth strength to bear his dismay.

For in decay’s cold, crumbling face,

Life doth endure, with quiet grace.

Thus on he goeth, day by day,

Through ruins where wild things make their play.

With each step a silent plea,

For work, for food, for dignity.

But lo, in that forsaken place,

A frail Droseraceae he didst trace—

Its withered leaves, its lifeless hue,

A final hope, a chance anew.

With cautious hand and tender grace,

He touched its stem to heal its face.

Yet in a breath, the trap did spring,

Its tendrils fierce, a wicked thing.

It coiled ’round him with ruthless might,

And rose, a fiend of towering height.

Its roots did twist, its grip grew tight—

And in that grasp, he lost all light.

His voice, once bold, was choked and bound,

His cry for help a stifled sound.

With tear and sweat, he fed its roots,

As life slipped out in silent shoots.

No gasp, no cry, no farewell call—

The boy was lost, devoured, small.

And in that empty, ruthless land,

His dreams did slip like grains of sand.