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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #2168990
They rush to leave in a dry season.

Why your hurry?
The rush divides air in turnstiles I feel
Every color fleeing
         unnatural from birth
         when you were green.
Your pandemonium a scene,
         seldom witnessed,
In a dry vault
arrivals are announced,
         a din in your clamor,
         messages to ignorant earth
that die in silent clutter.

Your departures timed by her
         every season
prepare our love, a game of death,
with each new crop of green immigrants.
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