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Foreign

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Quietly simmering inside the pond of a foreign land,
The beginning of our war has begun.
The gentle waves,
And gleaming sun,
Retract the scorching water’s surface,
Until the glistening snowballs,
Reach their abode.
After a violent irreversible pull,
In the clouds,
They watch from above.
Their monotonous visits,
Leave us wet,
And dirty,
And depressed.
When the seasons revolve,
This scorching water finally constricts,
Until an unmatchable pattern forms.
Paired with brothers and sisters,
They gracefully cast shadows over our once dirty land,
And form a layer,
to hide the previous seasons.
Now, with everything settled,
I can throw a snowball,
From a foreign land.





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