The wind turbines whirring,

Animals stirring.

The trees so tall,

Yet you cut,

I fall.

They stand in a line,

Birch to pine.

Small villages lie,

The sun came to die.

The hill drop trés shear.

Many buildings around,

More mystery found.

The white stallion on the hill,

Watches through the night so still.

Grass ever growing,

The cold wind blowing.

Cold summer air rushes through my hair.

Gazing into the sky,

On the concrete, I came to lie.

The End

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