The Golden Season

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I turn greens into gold. When leafs from trees crumble down and leave branches bare, prepare yourselves. I blow away many with my drift, the fickle won’t resist. But I turn greens into gold, fight through me, inherit the earth. I fill the streets with strange silhouettes that only the fearless can face. I strip nature of it’s decor, and hope you’ll admire the purest form.

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Prose by Kea Mooka

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