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Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #2218506
Where ever that plane is going, I want to be there.
I spot a shiny twink'ling glare
In fourty thousand feet of air.
Where it goes, I do not know,
I miss the world from way up there.

Where tulips stretch in colored row
And from those fields the windmills grow.
Piercing caps of mountain snow
Through the forest bitter cold.
There's cobbled streets and steaming wine,
And little shops of trinkets fine.
Gothic churches reach the sky
And castles grand are such a site.
Summer days that never end
And winter fires where souls a'mend.
A place where cares are slipped away,
And time goes by at fancy pace.

I spot a shiny twink'ling glare
In forty thousand feet of air.
Where it goes, I do not know,
I miss the world from way up there.
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