simonhlilly

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This land, boy, is called history.

And she sleeps naked to the sky

And dreams of heroes.

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This land wades through its weather,

Wrapped in stories, warmed by its belonging.

We are gnats here for an hour or two

Dancing above an eternal pool

Reflecting the sapphire deep skies.

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This land stretches from shore to shore,

From sea to seabed, one continuous cloak,

A net of heart fires.

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