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€πππ’π ππππ’π‘π¦ ππ π ππππ¦ ππ πππππππ‘ππ ππ βππ π ππ’π. πΌπ‘π π‘βπ ππππππ π‘βππ‘ π βπ πππ£πππππ¦ πππ£ππ πππ π‘βπ πππ π πππ π‘βππ‘ π βπ π βππ₯π . π΄ππ π‘βπ ππππ’π‘π¦ ππ π ππππ¦ ππππ¦ ππππ₯π π₯ππ‘β πππ π πππ π¦ππππ .
Her love spread out like Branches, Reaching upwards to the sky. Giving shade throughout the summer, And a place to keep you dry. So all the citys children, Built a treehouse round her spine, And though they never asked her, She still told them she was fine, They etched their names with knives, Along the edges of her bone, A handwritten reminder, She was always theirs to own, Despite the pain they brought her, Upwards she still grew, Thinking if you love someone, Its the least that you can do, But as the kids turned into adults, And the winter air grew cold, She wept sap from their carvings, For they weighed too much to hold, And the men all thought her branches, Were to help their fires start, Put a chainsaw through her heart. She walked across the room, Raised a white shade, And opened the french doors to her garden. She plunged her elegant fingers into a blue hydrangea on the terrace, To see if it needed watering. No sooner had she lifted her hand out of the flowerpot than a bird landed on the stone balustrade that overlooked the garden. The tiny thing looked a bit wobbly among the flowers. Marvelous cascading laugh, Halfway between a tease and a call to joy.
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