On that day the west shall
beckon on the sun to
come home, for long
it has not known thd orange visage.
Then beautiful feet will grace
with each tender thud setting a tune
for the dust to dance; the
blades of grass become fine
blunt faces as the bow awe-struck.
'what struck? ' the verbena,
and aloes ask.
These feet had now covered
some distance, invoking boughs
to break-free from the shackles of the seeds.
Trees marveled, the wind sped past
them on it's caravan, delighting the leaves;
even the sun looked back.
The lilies now interested, along side aloes and roses:
'what makes my root dance? '
then, a whisper-
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