Tree

I am a tree
Standing still on top of hills. As they produce fresh soil for my viens and pump life into my being. My branches sprout high into the bright blue skies. I produce many things
Food for the nature, a shelter for the blistering weathers. I create an awe for passing travelers as my leaves burst into an pulchritude of colour.
I am a tree
I do not move. Only when the winds whisper sweet melodies into my limbs, making me dance to their interesting, cavort manner. Or when i am on the verge of death and the rain purifies me with its kiss of refreshment.
I am a tree
Taken advantage of. Being killed off, chopped to pieces by sharp axes of evil, and flattened by gruesome machinery.
I am no longer a tree, I am what you call a stump. No longer do i produce branches for life or sprout new leaves to attract visitors with my radiant colours. I am merely a helpless stump, longing for the life that has been taken from me.

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