Do you dream, my love,in hues of wheat and gold,a harvest ripe and radiant,glowing beneath storm-blue skies—their vastness flecked with gray,a tempest’s tender prelude? I see you,rain-rose petals, nude and pink,scattered soft against the ivory silkof your skin—smooth as clay,unmarred, awaiting the artist’s hand.A canvas alive,you beckon my brush,strokes bold and delicate—oil pastels in saffron

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