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Brahm's Winter Song by Wayne H.W Wolfson




          My Russian winter. It is late, late fall. I think of back East when the wolf gets not just an hour but an entire season. That cold, soul coughing pain in my chest.

          I am outside the city without you.

          It is the time of year when hearts may break. By three o-clock the trees grow silhouettes, shadows birthed by a falling sun.

          The song you hum, I can not sleep without my music. Well, I can but in the morning my dreams are kept from me, as are we.



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