The city was once a village
The village was green and small
Everyone agreed that nature was friend
And to forget means to let it die
Nature is large
Nature is larger than life
All of these statements are misleading
For nature cannot be measured
And its existence is life itself
Nature puts its suit and visit its people in many ways
Most of its visit were recounted by writers who lived in a village
One man wrote: "In the middle of the field I was carresed by the gentle wind. It did not bothered me, it reassured me"
A woman, who had an experience with the weather wrote: "The sun was shining down on us. The gentle warmth bring the people out to play"
The city emerges from nowehere
And it demands its people to walk faster towards death
The village and it houses decayed
Went and gone
Most of them turns to dirt and soil
Nature leaves
Its goodbye was the last green leaf
Since every building in the city needs premit to visit
It went to search for villages
The city is full of life
People lived
Nature is gone
But what of it?
Writers still recount their life
O, the writer...
Bless their souls
For every experience is a writing
And every experience is sometime
Not worth living
But, writing indicates that they were alive
See the sky
Seldom could you see the sun
And if it does
It brings great pain to its people
Seldom could you see the star
And if it does
It brings them hope for a future that cannot be achieved
A businessman wrote: "I awoke with great pain on my back. Everything here is always at large, everything. Buildings, pollutions, and the color grey"
The writer doesn't find it necessary to put another story
For it was surprisingly
The same story
Told over and over again
No sunshine could warm its people
No wind could caress its worries
And no green to bring virtue and beauty
Let us all sing a song of silence
For it seems like another tree was tumbled
Another field was burnt.