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I drink from the brine, a pond or warm wine. To bloat and to lie, as I pass the world by. Grander than spires, as for mountains, much higher. A mat, full and deep, on which no one can sleep. Yet I bow to the breeze, less substantial than fleas. Then far from my birth, I shed my great girth. |
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draws itself from moisture completely passive travels long distances grows to colossal sizes high in the sky cottony appearance little substance travels by the wind rain |
