Wednesday, April 12, 2006 | 2:26 AM

One by one, the browned leaves that look as if they belong on the tree for eternity fell off.

They prance down the path to the ground, the rustling they make their chanting of a litany cursing the wind for causing the separations.

The wrinkled, gnarled branches that look as if they can bear the wieght of all those little leaves till the ends of time finally snapped, and with a sickening crunch, meet the ground on their way down to hell.

Leaving large holes in the trunk, which had it been possible, shed blood for the loss of limbs, but instead, mirror the empty soulless eyes of zombies.

What tree dare stands against the blazing sun who killed the clouds two centuries ago, in a battle over the fair Lightning, surrounded by a graveyard of dead plants?

None, and all that is left of those who dare fight, is a rotten, decaying stump, much like a grey and withered human heart.

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