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Speaking with a dead hare
On the grey moor
Scare crows away
With quiet words
Gathered around
your wounded head
Leave me alone here
to remember.
Reaching out
Seeking something beyond
your mortal self
The faintest scent
Of summer
Of daisies and clover
And dancing like the ladies
Turned to stone
Patiently waiting
for the magic to return
As it always does.

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