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Eastwind I am of the east wind born of the sunís breath. flowing beneath wings to fill mouths with the sweet dew of morning. I carry the sea wind to the prairies' parched dry skin, stretched and aged in her maturity. I sweeten her with the touch of a young lover, stir in her belly feverish fires of remembrance. In ardent caress, I whisper of past delights, longings scattered in the dust. I gentle her tears of time, eroders of epochs and spirit, feather the wrinkles from the brows of her sagging hills and vales, surround her with currents of tenderness, and lay her down to rest in a bed of wild prairie rose. There, are we one.
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