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Literature Text
I miss
the autumn of a tender age:
those leaves which finally surrendered
and came down from the trees,
scattering like rasping crows
in our wake -
their animal orange,
their beastly brown,
and the smell of old sunshine
in their decaying corpses.
the autumn of a tender age:
those leaves which finally surrendered
and came down from the trees,
scattering like rasping crows
in our wake -
their animal orange,
their beastly brown,
and the smell of old sunshine
in their decaying corpses.
Suggested Collections
written in 2000
© 2007 - 2024 gwalcheved
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