In dawn's embrace, she strolls the dew-kissed fields,
Her tender touch, to morning's yield.
Silken hair, a cascade of midnight's grace,
Soft hands whispering, love’s gentle trace.
Beneath the boughs where shadows fade,
She moves with ease, the milking maid.
Her breath, a sigh in the cool, crisp air,
Her eyes, a promise, a daring dare.
Each motion, slow, deliberate, kind,
Her touch, a...
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