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Through windows coloured gold she views the sky,
exploding with the milky stars aglow
with secrets that the gods and children know;
beyond the flame she’s seeking to espy
the predator astride the butterfly,
and settling back she waits to watch the show,
as marching past the shining soldiers go,
while sirens sing their haunting lullaby.

The windowsill is dusted o’er with dreams,
and eyes toward the heavens often turn,
to make the puzzle feel less incomplete;
yet fiery promise isn’t what it seems,
and glowing orbs that strive to see it burn
would better watch the ground beneath her feet.

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