When the Moon is a ghostly stallion proudly prancing, hooves pounding, turf billowing upon the peripheral plains,
the wind is a Thorn Bird
shrilly singing through
the stark and barren Aspen tree's. the Ghosts they, are free to come.
When the Moon is a ghostly stallion proudly prancing, hooves pounding, turf billowing upon the peripheral plains,
the wind is a Thorn Bird
shrilly singing through
the stark and barren Aspen tree's. the Ghosts they, are free to come.
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