The Magpie

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He painted a breeze
Then hoped for a sigh
From the frosted trees
In his heartland

They spoke sometimes
The colors of white
The sparkling snow
It prayed the winter night

His world, it bloomed with
the green of the grass
The gold of the hay
The dripping nectar of flowers

He lived in loss
Filled his eyes only with a color
To make do
Without life’s mystical blurs….

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