And, that rustle of the wind
February’s dream, gathering like mast of ship. It grows warmer, as
winter recluse, plays the truant
hills suddenly look so green
matching sapphires and emeralds; wiping off dust from withered feet, we dream boats in thought
as violence surrounds the country’s capital, students are not at rest, policemen enter, sleuths are overworked.
The hills look greener
the hills looker greener.
And we, meaner, whiter.
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