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Field of Green

Fields of green, dotted with yellow, sprinkled with blue, add a little purple.

Splashed with red, blooming here and there, and over where?

A blanket of white spread so neatly and pure; calm and serene, innocent in all that green.

The source of it all, watch as it sweeps the floor, ascends atop and falls right back. Wasps and caterpillars produce life in life, bringing forth a slow death much like all else. For life in life, in death more life. A watchmaker’s will, a turn, it seems, in a constant. From it we sing of a bitter Winter and a scorching Summer; a cool Autumn and a blooming Spring. From dirt, dirt is made, living dirt with quite an end. The ruler of this field, dirt walks and he strides; he tramples then he tills; he works to keep and keeps to maintain all the birds and the trees, and that great mountain.

As dirt transforms, so do fields of green. Afloat the white clouds, now stained with black vapour, at the cost of lives all for the sake of corrupted labour. The yellow and the blue, the purple and the red danced once before, but now seem dead. But the Bright star, brightest of all, sees what happens and descends to wipe sorrow. The Source of sight, it shines even until the late night. That Bright Star, only reachable from afar transforms the dirt and erodes all the hurt. The Bright Star that sees, a Watchmaker it seems, maintains the constant because the Constant is unchanged.

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