Predicting a tempest is
something many try and fail at
yet try again in vain.
The wind which whips furiously the
Life blood of the planet
from the eclipsing rage hovering over
a butterfly meadow, that was once serene
yet teeming with life lays now beaten,
struck down by a barrage of
heaven's tears which echo
the assault of the past. And
yet do the mouths of the fauna drink
from, without mercy towards the invaders
of their land. Straying from
the savehavens of burrows and nests to
feast upon the conquerers and regenerate
themselves to grow yet mightier,
and cling back, renourished,
waiting for another invader.













Comments
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Human race has deviated from the race for humanity... destiny has been raped...
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Uumpapamaumau!
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Uumpapamaumau!
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