A Meadow Nap

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There be a tired rose,
She lays in the field,
No one quite knows
How such great exaustion can be healed.

The breeze attempts to lul her,
As do the grass and the leaves
Sadly it's futile, for
The sun always pours through the trees.

Damned be that moonlight
It has a mighty wicked glow!
Now the poor rose is restless in night,
So she lay there in awe of the dark heaven's show.





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