Here, once a tree stood,
all the artistry can't bring life-
it's wilted to wood.
Fawn hunted for sport,
designs the living;
pleasure from innocent source.
Sun draws the nature,
waltzes over the deep sea-
moon shades the picture.
In this intriguing nest
am I a miscreant,
stemming the growth of colourful eggs?
We fail to see the paint,
the stroke of His brush
imbibed in each space.
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