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The night opens its ancient, silver door, wind threading its low song through desert stone. Shadows drift like spirits across its floor~ the dunes transform beneath the moon’s throne. Wind threading its low song through desert stone, it braids the dark with whispers no one keeps. The dunes transform beneath the moon’s throne, the sand shifts softly in its restless sleep. It braids the dark with whispers no one keeps; shadows drift like spirits across its floor. The sand shifts softly in its restless sleep~ the night opens its ancient, silver door.
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