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The moon shivers above us like a brassy knob on the blue and glod drawr of the sky. Your eyes are cool and crisp like icy spring lettuce, and oyur arms are the warm cotton of a woven blanket. Your song is of mangos and oceans; of faraway lands where trees tower over buildings and children play in pools of sunlight. Where men and women are content with just sitting. Where you close your eyes, and you listen to an orchestra of birds and frogs, and crickets play lonley melodies of a lost love. Where words ride on waves, climb banana trees, walk down dusty roads and thrive on the simplicity of perfection. As we say goodbye, the sianara kiss falls sweet like sugar, and wavers in the air like a feather.

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