Across highways of water and wind

lies a mist-coated isle, where

purple mountain peaks sit, perched,

overseeing the rolling green hills

where the cicadas sing her a song.

Towering stone stairwells. The heave

of her breath, air in her lungs

gushing out like whirlwinds

in the rose bushes. Yet still she goes,

still climbing, still. Soon she

reaches the top and feels

the soft soil of the summit,

comforting and soft like the

warmth of a hand over her back.

Ancient shrines lay waiting to renew.

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