Green in tint at the top of the brush as we brush off the crys of the city for it. As dry as a foreign desert in which help is a thousand miles away. Even the leaves begin to wilt and rotten from the city’s tint, the storms just a way for mother nature to vent; sick of the nature of man. Young children roll around in it only to become a slave years after. Passion gone passive without the pursuit of man made seeds, welcome the root of wars, kiss the hand of hate….. welcome greed.