Rusted is the copper chime, her spirit gone for now.
Not to the stars, heed not the lies, the murmurs of the crowd.
Her echo is loft across the map but listen! For it isn't loud.
She belongs not to the sea nor land, yet uses each at whim
to tune the notes. The fire is stoked, yet she soars with her kind, the wind.
And, as the moon, the seasons change, thus shall the rose turn, too,
back to the ones she calls her own. Tho she fears it won't be soon.
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