Sitting amongst the deafening hustle of the dunes and the twilight sky,
When the sun goes down but the crevice that sits on the horizon is full of crimson light.
The glow of the moon on the pitiless waves.
The noise is loud but it’s nice
Because it masks the woeful hustle of my mind.
The cloud-covered distant hills seem so innocent and they slowly die against the approaching night.
The tide, 
It moves.
Unravelling itself into an apparition.
Galloping horses, white horses.
So pure and clear.
I forget about everything but one thing.
It reminds me.
Reminds me of that time we sat in that glorious field,
Chasing butterflies in the hazy breeze.
We lay,
Amongst the blurred, towering grass.
My lips burnt with black velvet,
But softened with the smoke of my cigarette.
We watched the horses ride by,
Their tails wailing through the tender air.
Buttercup fields,
Gloriously with
That glorious you.

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