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The dark is a sacred place, of quiet reflection. It can be so many things, whether a place to rest, or to hide. The dark is where my love first flowers.

 

This place is shimmering, the wisps of flowers fly their petals up over the crimson tops of trees. They shine in all colors of the twilight. On the wind is the birds song, and celtic dance flushes her widowed cheeks. In her flush the promise of new mornings. The sun, sweet honey, dripping down her chest, her of sky, and the dark reflects it beneath night.