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Singa

The gate opens slowly as not to disturb the black mountain.

The birds on the mountain start to fly away cause of the impending encounter.

The rivers that run down the mountain become a clear brown and raise.

The roots of the mountain start to rise out of their place and shake the chains that bind it.

The call of the mountain is loud and piercing as it remembers an old friend.

The roots jump upon a land made of concrete and wood.

The mountains becomes the avalanche and the avalanche consumes the friend.

The mountain’s name is Singa and he greets me every time I come home.

The mountain loves his friend and the friend loves the mountain.