The wind says
come.
Let me brush the leaves off your shoulder
and have them f l u t t e r in the breeze.
Let me beautify
your decay
and send your colors
spinning
to
the
ground.
come.
Let me brush the leaves off your shoulder
and have them f l u t t e r in the breeze.
Let me beautify
your decay
and send your colors
spinning
to
the
ground.
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