Ode to Nature (Composed Upon a Hill in Infested Territory)

O pristine lake with your idle waters reflecting the sky so blue! O trees, leaves shifting in the breeze, giving Voice to the Wind! You are reality! You are that which inspires beauty in the basest person.
Lake, allowing people to picnic by your serene waters. Even I, a mere recorder of Life, note how you do not budge or change your course from Lakeness. even when those who set up the picnic have been consumed by the ravaging horde of undead at your shores, even then you do not alter from your eternal beauty.
Lake, do not think I miss how, when those undead creatures, rotting away by the minute, drown in your waters, you do not move away. Though bits of decaying flesh float atop your otherwise perfect, profound, and serene surface, you benevolently allow the mindless monstrosities to enjoy your waters; for all creatures are equals in your eyes.
Trees! O, trees, ye ancient constructs of the Goddess! Countless have been the times when I, a weary traveler, worn from the cares of the world, have sat for hours, enjoying naught but your shade and support. Your leaves in the Wind are a better music than any concerto! Pity, then, that the ghastly howls of the walking cadavers drown out such music in a horrible cacophony. Despite this, trees, you noble creatures, you allow the thousand-odd number of walking dead to rest their rotting bodies from their long trek from Canterbury. How noble! I do not opine for a moment that my fellow humans would allow such a thing to happen.
And do not believe for a moment that I would forget birds, the avian lords of the sky. Futile would it be to attempt to enumerate the amount of lovers who have gazed into each others’ eyes to the tune of your music—though they are now only cogs in the ravaging, ever-hungry undead machine. The most beautiful waltz cannot compare to the song of a bird on a still day!
When the day is cool, the breeze light, and the scent of autumn is strong in the air, nothing can compare. Thus it is unfortunate that the stench of decaying matter, wafting through the air, originating from the thousands of walking corpses, does mask the otherwise very pleasant scents of the season.
Mankind’s mechanizations have little purpose other than to mask your natural splendidness. It is, then, a conundrum for me, that all man’s accomplishments have recently been consumed by unholy beasts driven by their hunger for human flesh. For while those humans still living may fully experience You, we do so at the risk of being swept away by the tide of Undeath.
Hark! A new sound presents itself! Verily, it is quite unnatural, yet not the horrid near-scream of the Mindless. I do wonder it is. Birds, you take no notice. Lake and trees, you are too wise to notice anything but what is directly relevant to yourselves!
Doomed to distraction, I notice that it is those machines of death, M-1 Abrams, symbols of Man’s inherent destructiveness, coming to roll through the Undead. O! O Nature, why can Man not learn to mimic your serenity? What I would not give to live in harmony with you, O Nature!

Alas…! Alas.