She was found there lifeless in the woods, lying among the crisp autumn leaves. The trees casted perfect shadows on her moonpale face, the orange gleam of the dying sunset pricked through the spaces between leaves and barks, exactly as she had envisioned. Her caked lips were parted; she seemed to have died agape as her stiff fingers clung to the thin white gauze that is the gown that she wore. It was then covered in filth for slabs of soil had filled her nails. The soles of her feet were bleeding still -- she must have run barefooted across the stones. And probably tripped there. And smashed her head on a rock. No one knows. The trees wouldn't speak. The place was devoid of breath and movement, denied even of the rustling wind. There was no sound. She used to listen to the orchestra of a nearby stream and birds singing. She loved flowing water. And dancing foliage. The green of the leaves she loved the most. But where she finally perished was indeed a lifeless dusk. Even the trees were dead. Everywhere you looked it was dry and sterile. But it was still the earth. She lay there in eternal slumber, sturdy as she had always been, empathic to the emptiness of that vast expanse of mother nature with whom she had at last become one.

Everywhere you looked it was dry and sterile. But it was still the earth. It was the earth in its purest form, nothing in it that was not created by God. It was bare and dispossessed of vibrance, yet it was still beautiful.