I turn greens into gold. When leafs from trees crumble down and leave branches bare, prepare yourselves. I blow away many with my drift, the fickle won’t resist. But I turn greens into gold, fight through me, inherit the earth. I fill the streets with strange silhouettes that only the fearless can face. I strip nature of it’s decor, and hope you’ll admire the purest form.
Prose by Kea Mooka