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The Belle Tower
She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly.
In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves.
The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark.
The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide.
Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.
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