The tea gardens arise on windy plains, packed down panels underneath the tight-pressed scarves on the perimeter. In the heart of them, I stand just like a tea-cup with my mother plucking my flair of tea leaves and picking up the best ones from the basket of thoughts and making it to a thick concentrate of preferences. She adds two spoons of the powdered choices in my mind (my cup) with her blessings of tasty milk and wishes of bonbon sugar, getting out of me a sweet tea of output who receives the taste of a lot of affectionate hearts.
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