She found life in the petals of a dying rose. Her iridescent eyes caught wind from the Northern corners of granulated suburbs and empty fields. A marigold heart that chose to beat for those who left theirs in a shadowed past not unlike her own. With her she carries the wealth of the river, etching into hardened rock and wispy snow. Her mind was 5am in Sommières, a ludic hamlet where thoughts could dine together in a café. There she sat irresponsibly composing conquering prose on shadows, leaves, and the death of young men. Seeming pleasantries drafted as altering necessities. With each stroke of her being was the lyric of Norway, a sun in the land of snow.
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