A tree once golden now dies,
her bones now marrowless.
Her blood holds only goodbyes,
Behold! life in its narrowness.
The falling of her leaves I cannot bare,
for their veins are shriveled and dry,
uttering their lifeless prayers
as they fill the rotting sky.
Five hundred summers scorched her,
yet those memories she suppressed,
though by tears of flame tortured;
with whispering corpses she's found rest.
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