This land is charred and grotesque. Hills rise with reluctance because they will be most likely be mutilated. Her screams haunt the empty fields, reverberating until they’re unrecognizable.
The people try to help, but don’t understand. She gives and gives to them, and they smile and hold their treasures close while she bleeds. Her blood isn’t blue anymore, the poisons have polluted it. Green veins can’t keep a system running for long. Still, they take and she gives, crying to the winds and grain for help.
She burns herself over and over again, begging for it to stop.
Her body will always be here, but she will not.
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