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Gnarled fingers twisting upwards,
My frame is strong, but brittle.
I have seen centuries pass,
Each leaving its scar on the landscape,
The actions of few destroy the existence of many,
And the children who sat upon me sing no more.
I have watched as my friends have fallen,
Through rotted bodies, or untimely swipes from the Reaper’s scythe.
Still I stand, tall and proud, until fate comes for me,
And there shall be nothing left but a wooden monument,
To mark where I once stood.

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