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The Sun Is My Shadow My vermilion ocean eyes surge and ebb like you in your final days. Your seeds have sprouted during a southern winter, unseasonably bitter, as the barren meadows of unimportance germinate emerald carpets. I feel your maternal breath every time the wind blows and watch you soar, stretching your wings, racing the parasailers, doing what you used to sing along to when your favorite song played. I see you in the majestic palm, waving to me in your flowing foliage gown. Don't cease fond nature, I know what angels wear.
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