Ancient war horn blows proud to the sapling assembly, their shoots sprouting forth, even in the dim light of this white-washed greenhouse, the only rays from shattered shards of our spectrum turned solid, above all stands mirror mirror on the wall, telling truths a thousand times told.

The saplings shuffle uncomfortable in their rows, eager to grow full and burst seed through the
universe, the truth they hold igniting stars in galaxy far flung the beyond, to one day come together in a cluster shining an infinite bright, to eek in cracks dripping crude, to light the forest whole, a holler turned to mere whisper of wind, rushing swift around their bleeding stumps.

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Image created using a 6-hole pinhole camera.