The deed is done

The flow of her clothes in the wind is as waves are to the sea. They echo throughout the steppe. Her mind is a tumult of anger and disbelief. "What have you done to my home?" Cerulean eyes run the length of the continents and anger overtakes disbelief. "What have you done TO MY HOME?!" The stride of a bitter goddess, no longer the loving mother. Eyes ablaze, they scream bloody murder. Grief, like no other, shakes the world of man, cracking foundations of concrete. A cataclysmic anguish topples towers, rips the greed out of her seas. She pulls the poison from the skies and heaves from the effort. She rises, exhausted and hollow, but the deed is done. The cancer is gone.