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Vast landscapes scorched by an inexorable sun, yet soon to be dead itself

Dismantled, dried and scarred, sparsed erected trunks,

like the thorns on the bastard’s crown, fail to bring memories of the past.

And life? What life? Dead, buried and forever gone.

No one to witness the deadly beauty of the black dust,

sweeping the wastelands.

The wind is howling, dry, hot, the once bringer of storms.

Setting its dominion as an ever living overlord.

A dead earth its throne.