Twists around the spur with abrupt emerald advances,
he is almost entombed in indulging resin,
his boots are probably plastic,
that were once paraded like balloons.
Raising the sunken settings of unknown valleys,
he chances the inhuman slope of seven translucent shades -
a far cry from the novelties of lingering snow.
He may well cut a path through deepest waters.
Meanwhile,
in midsummer,
a girl records the wonderful colours of nowhere.
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