Emily, you stitched the world into small, precise syllables,
tucking eternity into lines so brief,
they might be mistaken for whispers.
But in your whispers, there were earthquakes,
the kind that only the soul could feel.
You walked the garden paths of Amherst,
where bees hummed their sermons
and the wind brushed secrets against your ear.
Did you know your words would fly...
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