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The Builders MAG
A sandbox kingdom lay beneath an oak.
Buds bloomed from the barren ground
As they built towers and castles,
Wielding plastic shovels like wands.
They spent the summers the same way
They spent dirty quarters from their pockets,
Delighting in the pleasure of growing like the grass
And running blindly into the wind.
The sun grew dimmer.
Pressing the fiery leaves to the trees,
They tried to keep them from falling.
But they burned their hands, so they let go.
The leaves fell and the oak followed.
Quiet snow painted the spires
Of the castles they once built
In the midst of their sandbox kingdom.