from my windows i can see,
living trees,
dew glistening from the leaves, dripping,
like dark blood welling from an ancient wound,
spilling life onto the damp ground below,
filling craters in the mud,
indentations, recording a past memory of a day gone by,
the energy printed on the record of time,
the trees know they will go on,
even when war and hatred fill the earth,
the grass will still grow,
pushing through the pores of fresh loam.
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