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Nature

by MARGHERITA MORO (Italy)

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December 2019

The grass stings my thighs and whispers at me to move my legs so that it may look upon the stars 

by ELLA GREEN (New Zealand)

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December 2019

I try to think of death as an ocean; uncharted and unknown, but vast.

by ELEANOR LEWIS (Wales)

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December 2019

i have come back

to the village i swore i would never see again

by ENLING LIAO (Australia)

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September 2019

Late afternoon. I never knew a whisper, soft and sweet, could sing

by ELIZABETH BUNTIN (United States)

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April 2019

There is a certain inscrutability in the mercurial ebb and flow of life in the woods, an unassuming cadence that settles just beyond my naive circumspection. The dry sweep of the wind’s touch is fond and insidious in turns . . .

by MAI MCGAW (United States)

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April 2019

On a frosty October morning, I walk to a field

And lie flat on my back in the dewy grass.

by ROSIE JONES (United Kingdom)

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April 2019

A poem is when a scattering of swallows suddenly form a perfect v.

A poem is the angle which makes dew on a rose petal look like diamonds.