O, WITHERING FOREST

O, most magnificent withering forest,
Where wonderful winds do blow at their freshest,
Covering such a dismal atmosphere thou breathe of,
Exhaled by the voices of dead plants and trees chopped off,
With the sun shining on thy decaying soul,
Thou still cannot redeem that dear perfection they stole,
Only the glitter of man can plant a new soil on thee,
But not from those men befogged of the evil's beauty they see!

O, ever-glamorous, disheartened forest!
Hope is cloistered within the enchanting winds blowing gayest,
And flying to the diminished beauty thou had before,
Thy exquisite plants and trees shall inhale toxic no more,
And their splendid spirits would flourish again,
Only if those effulgent eyes open for hope hidden in blues,
For it will always twinkle like stars in space!
One day, a gentleman will help thy soil retrieve its old grace.