The trees are weeping.
No one asks why.
No one dares.
It is not the clouds.
It is them.
Their tears run slowly down the bark.
As if the wood itself
can no longer hold what it has seen.
There is something in the air.
Not a smell.
Older than a smell.
Something that stays
when everything else has gone.
The branches no longer move.
Even the wind hesitates.
The forest is waiting.
It does not know for what.
It waits anyway.
— Forest Cycle
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