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The old tree
party in decades,
wait for the sunset
in the hands of a lumberjack.
Its half is dead nature.
Your pride is reborn
in every January rain.
Even your skin is eager to wear green arms
He does not fear the ax,
only to break the wait.
Before dying to the yoke of the hachero
or be made of heat in the home
or putrid field mast
or forgotten cart wheel.
Strengthens your insides,
it becomes hard before giving in to fright.
The aridity wrinkles it.
He is thirsty for a river.
There is no imploring or singing praises.
Its noble wood is the heart of hope.
Stand up,
with pride and pride.
The forehead looking at life.
His eyes point to the sky
no prayer of creed,
that another dew of January it wet
and another miracle is reborn.
Branches to the air and breathe,
with the green lungs of hope.
It sweeps away its mold of rust,
a sprout appears and he cries to the air.
that new shoulders are reborn and
spill your arms expanded
the original image of the tall plant,
dawning with free masts
and the blanket that embraces a clutch
of the birds guests of the air.
Thanks for this contest to @sndbox
beautiful image
Thanks, the image is referential.
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