January 12, 2010
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Thy nature, its beauty, its serene essence,
Undergoes metamorphosis from thy day it’s burnt,
They leave a fire smoldering; the wind catches an ember,
Flowing with it as it reaches its end,
On a patch of dried pine needles it lays.
The destruction, the unfounded truth is under the death of living land
Nothing will stop it, unless by natures tears.

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