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  • On the seashore the seaweed, ripped from the bottom of the sea, rest to die. Dries up, shrinks, fades away.

    In it's arms rests remains a sign of a fruitful woman, ready to make a human being

    Thrash it might seem, unrelated, one dying, the other hint of a fruitful nest.

    Still they cuddle together by the sea.
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