reach out their arms
in hopes they'll touch the sky
the trunks of which
are hollowed out out
and the roots are wrinkled, dry
moonlight beats down on the trees
and bathes the sprouts in starlight
in a vain attempt at healing
the life that was their birthright
the night sky pleads
for them to stay
and weeps when theyre unable
the dying trees
refute the pleas
and deem the truth unstable
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