The truth of her is flower between keen stones
blasted by summer heat or beaten down by rain
There are no others like her, because she stands alone
When she's lined out straightly, she's drab and plain
It's the rocks in ancient state that are her mother's bones
and the roots unseen that spark flowers into flame
Pity the poor puppets who blindly pass her by
so full of hidden promise, so pleasing to the eye.
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