If Music...
T Tom Billsborough
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Fireflies, fireflies, small yellow flowers,
Lighting the woodlands in the wee small hours.
Consuela is playing her mellow guitar
Her eyes pale ochre, her lips cinnabar,
She sings to them sweetly her gypsy refrain
And dreams of her home in far away Spain.
The fireflies swirl as if to her beat
As she sits on the porch, a stamping her feet.
She feels like a Goddess commanding each soul
As they dance to her notes, each rise and each fall.
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