A sky of emerald green has sat above me since my youth. The trees as are countless walls to rooms without an end within the deepest woods of my youth, the sky appearing subtly behind leaves of green or golden red.
And when the winter comes the sky is white and the trees all grey and black, as though a cold flame had touched them in the night to render their branches bare.
It had been so in all my youth and all my younger days, living in the shadow of such giant trees which ripped at all the clouds. I had thought the world knew this as all there could ever be, until the day I went to far to stumble across some fields.
The land flew open, naked, as though what should be there was not. A land almost devoid of giants, simply sprinkled here and there. And there above all shone the sun as bonfire above them all, as though the Gods would show their rage to the empty ground below.
I returned into my emerald world, disgusted at what I had seen. For who would have the need or right to tear the forest from this world? And who would need more than a deer or skill to find a root?
Perhaps I will return again with a band ready for war, for the emerald to retake the bare and make the sun smile once more.
A prompt response.