In poetry while searching for the impossible, the incomprehensible, blazing arduous tones so foreign to our senses we revert to personifying everything that moves as if it moves through us, whispering winds (sharing secrets of trysts under rustling tree branches, bickering clouds ( one made the other one cry, and soon the whole sky was howling in symphony), stubborn wood, stretching stones, and pornographic tree branches arching to protect strapless dolls, walking the earth of literature brushing their hair, and feeding each other honey, like nymphets in the forest of their psychedelic smiling narrator.