Petrichor

Ambient
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A grey mayor with hoarfrost breath,
Defies me to look at her nakedness

Gathering about her the robes of the Earth,
Now run muddy with a sharp icy curl

And clear to the bottom,
Every particle in motion,

A stillness on the wind to carry her scorn,
If ever she may rest, and give birth to the world

Seems a little quiet over here

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