Golden flecks of sunlight tumbling through emerald
The smell of earth, of trees
Living, breathing, growing.
The river nearby,
Cool water gently combing its fingers through her hair.
Above the laughing, bubbling stream,
The wind caresses the leaves
Whispering its secrets to any who will hear
Inviting the wanderer to lose herself
In memory and dreams.
Let your eyelids fall
And then the gently mocking whisper:
Pretty maid, be mine,
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