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Sprouting up and out of the moving
white carpet, the trees push
skywards, their roots hidden
in the swirl, while a golden orange ball
glows low on the horizon and there
is a stillness around here, despite
the traffic, despite the persistent smell
of manure mixed with petrol,
while the never-ending road
cuts a deep gash through everything
pushes her forward, destination
south in the morning, north in the
evening, traveling like all the
other commuters. Just another work day.
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