The Land of Fruits and Vegetables

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The light dusting of snow on the roofs and on the leaves of confused budding plants lightly fall through sepia skies. The otherworldly glow of the final throes of a dying sunlight lights up this sleepy town. In summer the air is crisp and nature revels in its expected garden state while in winter thick snow covers the hills with a hand of white as skiers fill its ski slopes gliding from where the air is icy and brittle and serenity flows calmly unnoticed to where mechanical lifts are busy getting people from one place to another, two separate worlds a couple of minutes apart.

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The Cliché

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Nothing in this world compares to the feeling
 of gliding through a rocky mountain gliding under the skis, silently and feeling like you’re, for once, at peace. White snow covers the land with the coolness of winter’s kiss. The warmth of the sun never leaves
 this country as the cold settles in. Winter swims, hikes, and skiing with the scent of chill 
ting the air. 
The breeze circles, lost,
 caught in winter’s snare.
 Its bitter currents whispered 
through a miasma of cold waves.

 A world encased in this winters kiss
  swims in the sun’s dying rays. I, on the other hand, sit on the beach and enjoy this motley of fading blues 
entombed in the silence of space.

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