It is spring
now
even though
the long
mourns
I hear
from
instruments
flute,
violin, guitar, piano
playing
autumn, inside
memories I’d
know
as green, at
least remember
them as one
now changing
color
full of
dust,
suffocating
and dull.
The winds
outside
awash with
bird-songs
sunrays,
chirping brooks
do not
notice the tired wings
of
the overcast leaf;
it goes
away, far away
as outcast.
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