The pot boils, and boils. Tea smoke hangs so thick,
the pavilion is shrouded in a tea leaf veil. Butterflies
bounce between flowers, a heaven to earth spectrum dancing
through smoke wisps before cascading into dream black.
The pot whistles, and whistles, and the sun gazes upon
the pavilion once more. The butterflies sit idle,
enjoying the taste of nectar, and I recall the
sensation from an ancient forever.
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