A forest stands where metal branches creak,
With silver veins that pulse beneath the bark;
No bird within these copper woods shall speak,
To break the heavy silence of the dark.
Each leaf is etched with lines of ancient script,
A record of a war that no one won;
In vats of cooling mercury they’re dipped,
To shield them from the burning of the sun.
The traveler plucks a foil of rusted red,
And feels the weight of data in his palm;
The voices of a billion quiet dead,
Disturb the forest’s artificial calm.
The wind begins to howl a binary song,
Of all the things that went forever wrong.
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