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Finding our north,  we fly
over the tops of mountains.
White petalled stonecrop, the stars
beneath our wings.

Wild roar of the waterfalls
echoes in our ears,
We are bathed in rainbows
and quenched by the rising mist.

Center of the solar system
we soar atop our kingdom,
Time unfolds in the wingspan
of ancient memory.

Gliding over a thousand years
of storm-washed stone,
we hover on the edge of day,
not yet awake enough to know
the direction is ours to choose.

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