Being forlorn ...
by Orbindu Ganga
Feuillemort falls in dust
As the autumn arrives,
Looking from the window
Years have gone by,
Trees have no choice
To shed their veins,
Shivering in the cold
Pain had a name written,
Each year as autumn saunters
Waiting are we for the spring,
To see the particles of renaissance
Never to see a speck ...
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