Rounded humps,
a landscape of dreams,
or a nature's discarded chocolate kisses,
scattered across the plain.
Not green, not brown,
but a shade between,
a muted ochre,
a sigh of the earth,
in the dry season's hold.
Perfect cones,
a thousand, more or less,
rising in silent chorus,
a geological lullaby,
frozen in time.
Legends whisper,
of giants' tears,
of carabaos' battles,
of a lover's sorrow,
etched into the rolling terrain.
The sun, a...
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