The Birthing Camp
The darker reaches of heart-warmth find the heartwood, the hysterical terrains of history. It's a sentimental timber with breezy timbres making insensitive niceties--never once upset by a sunset, or by the vulnerable, the valuable.
Streams drip over lush-filled paths in drifts of teenage exuberance. A profiling fling of water cascades as if enticed by targeted minds with sheer merriment to conquer.
Water everywhere, oozing with its own Darwinian gift to a mother for [history innovation review society on new surveillance="her_sons"].
She was the one who brought fragrance to the soft, the inner ingredients for fleshy preferred perfumes in eager wager to taste the green in the balmy reaches--the tree belts, the bio-shields against impact.
Iceberg birthing camps once offered endless grips for each quantum of light newly arrived.
A revenge of extremes must, sooner or later, take ownership of its headwaters, but for now,
legend creates its own pardon principle.
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