We rule the forest,
and we run through the green,
tree shadows dappling
like a herd of grey stallions.
Moist dew sprays released
by thrashing ferns,
liquid stars of a moment,
melt into the moss,
created by our careless brush.
This flight of ours may be eternal,
impressed as a scene of joyful abandonment,
but our footfalls thunder off,
and we are left with nothing but the memory of echos.

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