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Hey holds the skinny branch
up and there is an eternity
between it’s wood and the snow
on the ground. A red sky is the colour
of cherries and the taste of them is
in the river where she is flowing, between
the sainthood and the mountains and the mountains
all around them; slithering rivers, hissing at
the gold around her eyes and the spinning
loops on top of the skies.

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