These trees are not majestic.
They do not laugh at sunlight. They do not wave at clouds.
They do not whisper elvish songs on the wind to delight the children.
My child, they have no use for children. They are dying, these trees, these gnarled trunks and lifeless branches twisted out of shape!
Oh, do not gape at me, my darling. I have eyes!
It's just that you surprise me with this silly talk of reaching toward the moon.
Why, I think they might as soon, in this insane romance of yours, get up and dance!
        He said, as he walked with his daughter beneath the giant redwoods.

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