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Updated: May 5, 2025
Ghost rains sweep down, smearing his rugged sides, yet on he writhes, undulant with pine and palm, gleaming until his low, sharp head and lambent tongue, grown gray and pale and silver in the dying day, kisses the molten gold of the golden sea. Then comes the moon. Like fireflies nesting in the hand of God gleams the city, dim-swathed by fairy palms.
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