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Your face is Australia, young and free.

A sweeping statement, boldly projecting

the image of uncomplicated symmetry.

Mine is Europe, overabundant.

A soft-focus blur of undefined borders

suggesting a mute defilement.

You’re high-definition but overexposed,

I’m background noise, content in the shadows-

a sepia negative still to develop

in contrast with you, the finished product.

No need to advertise, you sell yourself

as a brash rebuke to my craggy terrain.

I’m secondhand, left on the shelf,

accustomed to being the virtuous remains.

Rejecting the burden of history,

a vacant lot concealed by boundless plains,

you’re a trick mirror, all reflective glare-

you’re whatever people want you to be.

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