Look at the bountiful forest.
Look at Nature's splendor, the green, the gold, the life, the death.
Look, enemies, and realize the futility of your efforts.
Look around with your newly dead eyes as the grass and the vines
overtake you, making you one with that which you sought to destroy.

Hear the birds singing in the trees.
Hear them fall eerily silent, their song replaced by the screams of your
companions.
Hear your heartbeat slow, slow, slow... stop.
Hear the triumph of Nature as the birds sing again, carrying on so
easily after you are gone.

Smell the sweet grass as the wind carries it to you.
Smell the bark, the loam, the dirt, the renewal each day, the strength
of the night air.
Smell your blood as it sinks into the earth, you are fertilizer for Her.
Smell the air one last time, as the oblivion you crave so dearly comes
for you and you alone.

Taste the soft kiss of death, it will come for you soon.
Taste the dirt on your tongue and the last dregs of life welling up in
your throat.
Taste your last words as they slip past your lips, hopefully solemn
resignations but more likely screams of childish terror.
Taste defeat, you silly little things. You are nothing but termites. You
can take down a tree, but never the forest.

Touch the rough bark of the Great Oak, fool.
Touch the strongest thing you will ever see, and recognize how weak you
are.
Touch your cheek, feel the soft skin, feel the weakness of your
mortality.
Touch Nature, little Babelite, and let Her protectors do what must be
done with useless cowards like you.


Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Miraman, in the year 767 AF.