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Utopia
November 7, 2009
Where the wind mills turn,
black birds go by,
Grey clouds poof,
in the limitless sky.
Green valleys: thick and tall,
cool mist from morning fog,
quick rapids ever so fierce,
diamond on a landmine, ready to burst.
Silky smooth grass,
grazing our skins,
her touch so tender,
my breath taken by the wind.
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