No one comes to cut us down.
We grow. No one sets up stelae
In the slopes of rotting stumps.
The time of buildings is done.
Take away quickly has gone,
Taken to the house of dust.
It's all our slow world now, then.
Dressed like birds in feathered coats,
We were always far away.
We survived apocalypse,
First our own and then your own.
Now the wind in our branches
Is the last voice of your ghosts,
And our roots have found your homes.
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