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Literature Text
A purple tree grows
Twenty seven paces
From the hill,
Stands tall
As it cuts across the horizon.
A gust of feathers
Blows overhead.
One second,
Two,
Five.
Leaving only a sound of quiet
It clings to the purple leaves,
Rolls down branches,
To float over
Brushing over knees
And elbows,
Whispering in ears,
Leaving.
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