silver made trees shine
under the red glow of the sun
they seem to burn in a glare
melting down to the gray soil
fallen leaves dance to the wind
sweeping the snow from the mountains
little souls of forests live over trees
tales sang by feathered souls
hard roots hold the dirt tight
water might flush it all away
the blood spilled by hunters of the night
wolves are hungry and waiting for a prey
no voices, no trees are chopped
as a sanctuary the beauty is held
rivers flow smoothly, carrying rocks
cold as the winter they cascade
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