I saw a hot air balloon flying over my house: Most of the time, it was as quiet as a mouse, But, every so often, its burners suddenly roared, And higher, up into the sky, it suddenly soared.

Angela Wybrow

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“who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky – filled with pretty people?
( and if you and I should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
it’s
Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves”
E.E. Cummings, Collected Poems

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