Merely 8 stanzas this poem shall be. (It's not poetic. It's more "technical".)
The Veins of Countries
The clear precipitation,
Falling from the grey yonder,
With a 9.81 acceleration,
Blends into the blue-green meanders.
As the meanders swirl,
Escaping to the rivers' cliffs,
Forming eddies which twirl,
Ending on the plains of pity.
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