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Majrelende wrote (edited )

It is the day of withering drought and wild lily flowers, in the beginning of summer. On this day I can feel it, like dripping sludge upon the skin. It withers the grass; potato vines rot as they stand, fat caterpillars cluster about their leaves. Splotches appear on the leaves of the grain; summer peas and even the lamb's-quarters shrivel where they stand. The wind is still, dead-seeming. But there is something more, something that twists the heart and stomach no matter how one tries to ignore it, and makes one feel as if Heaven has departed. It is an evil day indeed.

How I love my country! It stretches between High-and-Wrapped-in-Cloud where rises the sun and Wind-through-Oaks where it sets! Blossoming with a thousand colors, green willows over the water that more than rivals the clearest glass, founded by nobody in particular I-don't-know-how-many-millions of years ago! Mushrooms sprout from the hillsides, weaving with the roots of trees, sedges green the shimmering glades, wild onions and oak woods bring nourishment to the stomach and peace to the mind. The language we speak here is like the trilling of thrushes in the deep forests, spoken in birdsong and in human voice; our script is like the lichens, deeply coloured upon the bark of the trees and the greyness of stones. And we are at war with every state, and every state is at war with us. I don't think it is very happy either.

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