Its December. The tree outside my window looks upon the only blossoming rose with envy. The rose notices the tree with the tears of dew. The scent scatters in the air at the first sight of the dawn. Sun rays appear in the dew as light rays from an emerald in a crown. The rose smiles. The tear slips down her cheek and into the green. The pearl is bound to be found - the depths are meaningless now.
A breeze blows like wind through a beauty's curls. The fragrant locks cover the horizon; bowing joyously to the crown. In the whispering of the tree the rose smile fragrantly.
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