The air is arid, and the earth is brown,

like finely crushed stale coffee beans.

The strong smell of sulfuric acid is all around,

And I mount a large, dead hill.

As I plant my feet onto the dried-up hate

My footing slips, and fall deep down.

Once the coughing stops, and the dust dissipates

It’s clear to me there’s nothing to hold onto here

So I find my strength, and raise myself up

Through irritated eyes, my vision is clear:

My out is through the sharp, gangly trees,

Through an unfriendly terrain, I find my way

The sky is bright, but my body may freeze

If I linger in this wasteland for too long.

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