From The Fallen Leaves Of Time..
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M. Asim Nehal
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I'm curious as to what happened to the lovely fragrance of love,
which was released by the crimson flower of life.
The memory icicles form in the interior dome of my mind
as I gather the shattered glass of the past.
Memory, in the shape of a scarecrow, stands in the center, drawing my attention away from my dreams.
As I walk past the closed doors of a hollow heart,
I smell the scent of love, as I gather the time's fallen leaves.
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