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Deep within the sea of trees untouched by progress

Is a meadow, an emerald sanctuary of ancient crest

At the foot of a great oak, true meridian of this land

Are stairs of root, leading to the lair of the green man

Webs made of flowers and weed, trap prey for the god to feed

To its master, nature concedes, the green man vomits dawn’s new seed

The cycle of seasons continue night and day

In his lair the arboreal guardian feasts on decay