Crimson blooms,
from within the depth of the lake...
it isn't what it seems to be, wind swirls from beneath...
Christmas, the season for everyone...
a white moth flutter down on my desk... its wings beating the table top,
shaking its powdery scales all over...
it isn't snow...
It no longer seemed what it is suppose to be...
let it start,
let the spirit do whatever miracles...
the moth soars so suddenly away...
a misty trail behind it...
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