A flick of the wrist, a casual release,
We label it 'trash,' find momentary peace.
Yet whispers rise from a world in slow decline,
A burden building, a tangled, choking vine.
Our Mother Earth, once vibrant, strong, and free,
Now stumbles, gasping, for all the world to see.
Her painted landscapes, exquisite and so deep,
Are fading fast, as sorrow starts to...
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