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The flowers do listen, like butterfly kisses. Along the wispy road.
Their crowns to the air, those ne'er-do-wells. With colors brighty shown.
No petals are broken, no fragrance unspoken. Barefoot along the path.
They sip morning dew, in gowns with deep hues. Their toes along the bath.
Slowly they sway, the wind combs the days. Away with gentle brush.
Each one a sister, the truth they do whisper. But lower than a hush.