Improvisation
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As I trace the profound
Sorrows of rusted red leaves,
Guilt runs like dark wine
Through my Catholic veins.
The wind seems to whisper
Of myriads of suffering things.
The trees seem to stand firm
As witnesses to autumn's
Curious events. Their deep silence
Is wise in its own way, I guess.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş