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The swallow
In the whitewashed winterland
flutters the snowflake speckled silhouette
of the last remaining swallow
longing for release, yet fearing to forget
the azure skies and emerald summers
of years gone by. But unrealised dreams
have turned the land of infantile fantasy
into ravaging glacial streams.
*
Should you find the window to my soul ajar,
could you let the swallow in my heart
build a tiny abode in your summer palace?
- whence its return shall herald the start
of spring and love and life...
