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The wind blows through the tall stark trees
Leaves shudder, dry and frail
They snap and break away, falling, floating,
Away from their swaying beginnings
They roll and twirl upon the Autumn earth
Already thick with tan and ash decay, once leaves
Soon to be dust, soon to be recreated, yet again
My love, nourish me so that I should not perish so
For it is not dark death that's feared
But recreation without you...

   

Copyright 2003 by Kenshan