Trees no longer hold the fruit
once seen as poison
They are the streets that scream out
and the birds above see Red
before the gutters overflow.
Songs once sung by the chosen hue
are upstaged by the fire crackers
controlled by mob-like justices
Why must their numbers spread
like the powder dispersed in the air?
As the darkness goes in,
the fallen go violently into the Light
Should history continue to repeat,
what is the sense of it all?
With four seasons of nature,
how then can Man not change?
The Cycle of Life takes away
making room and space for another
It is Man who speeds up the process
for himself
as long as he has help
Control is an action word
created by him
But nature has its own set of rules

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