The grand life of a feather,
Purposeless,
Effortless,
Run after by the butterflies,
Caressed by the wind,
Held close to a soft cheek
A book mark tossed between ink,
An impulsive gift from a young lover,
Unknown, invisible gathering dust on a tree,
The mischievous feather If I could be,
I would ride with the wind,
And elude the huntress, destiny.
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